


Into the Storm

by blank101



Series: Son of Suns Trilogy [1]
Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: AU, Action, Drama, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-23 06:13:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 144,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blank101/pseuds/blank101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Son of Suns Trilogy Part I </p><p>Darth Vader captures the passengers of the Millennium Falcon after their attempted escape at Cloud City, sure that Luke will convert to his cause and aid him in overthrowing the Emperor. When his plan is rebuffed he falls back on more desperate measures and hands his son over to Palpatine, who begins to systematically take apart Luke’s life to create a new Sith, turning him against his allies, his father and his beliefs with devastating consequences for both the Empire and the Alliance, as events cascade beyond anyone's control.</p><p>This is a completed trilogy, featuring Luke Skywalker, Darth Vader, Palpatine, Han Solo, Leia Organa, Mara Jade, Mon Mothma, and Crix Madine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

**_PLEASE NOTE: THIS IS THE FIRST PART OF THE _ ** **_SON_ ** **_OF SUNS TRILOGY._ **

**_Part One:- Into the Storm_ **

**_Part Two:- In Shadows and Darkness_ **

**_Part Three:- At the Brink of the Dawn and the Darkness_ **

 

 

I should point out that not surprisingly, I own no part of star Wars. It's all owned and run by George and The Mouse.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

  **Into the Storm **

Blank101

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 **'New beginnings are bought at the cost of an end'**  
Fragment from the Son of Suns Prophesy,(Jedi Master Egorin Dovas translation; 3/ 14,159 -minus.)  
Engraved into the Sunburst Throne (The Seat of Prophesy) circa 23,711 -minus.

 

* * *

 

 

 

** CHAPTER  ** **ONE **

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Futures.  
Fates.  
Choices made. Paths taken.  
Is the future an immutable event, preordained and inevitable?  
Or can it be changed by a single act, the split of an instant fracturing all that comes after,  
shattering it like glass against stone.  
Can destiny be changed?

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The wind whipped at him, buffeting his body as he tried to turn, howling like a banshee as he edged backwards over the precipice on the narrowest of beams, struggling for handholds against the smooth plasteel outcrop which counterbalanced precariously over an endless drop.

He was tired and battered and bruised, and he hurt like hell. And he had no idea where he was going to go next...because there was simply no-where else to go. And still his adversary harried him…

"Luke, you do not yet realize your importance. You have only begun to discover your power. Join me and I will complete your training...with our combined strength we can end this destructive conflict and bring order to the galaxy."

Battered and bruised, but not beaten. "I'll _never_ join you!" Luke twisted about, straining to reach the supporting pipes, his tattered arm clutched to him, the pain making his breath come short and fast.

"If you only knew the power of the Dark Side…"

Luke didn't look, didn't listen. What could Darth Vader possibly have to say that he wanted to hear?

"Obi-Wan never told you what happened to your father…"

That brought his head up, knowing resentment in his eyes. "He told me enough."

Grabbing the pipe, he swung himself onto the slim instrument vane which hung over nothing, pausing, heart in his throat as the fine plasteel veins rocked precariously, adjusting to a weight they were never meant to take. And still the winds howled, calling him on. Lifting his head, Luke threw the accusation at Vader, every fiber of his being hating him in that moment. "He told me you killed him!"

This was his truth, his mantra. This knowledge gave him the strength to fight, the spirit to resist. It was the very _essence_ of his cause, the single most significant happening in his life. The frame around which all other beliefs were built. He was alone in this galaxy, and he had been alone his whole life. Because of this…man. Could he even be called that? He was everything that Luke hated, everything he fought against. He was darkness and death personified.

All that Luke believed was distilled down to this moment, to these two combatants; he would _never_ give in—not to this…

"No… _I_ am your father!"

The words were an emotional body-blow with the power to knock the air from his lungs, so great was his shock in that moment.

Everything else— _everything—_ simply fell away… Every strength, every conviction…every lie.

Already he was shaking his head, denying it even as he knew it was true—he _knew_. But still the words fell from his lips, desperate and breathless… "No…that's not true. That's _impossible_."

"Search your feelings, you _know_ it to be true!"

Everything…everything was lost to him, the weight pressing in against his ribs so great he could scarcely breathe, his legs buckling as he leaned against the vein. If it were not there he would have fallen, would have simply collapsed, so great was the anguish.

He had lost his father. Lost him all over again in the cruelest way possible. The man he had worshipped ripped to shreds…by the man he really was. The grief fell from him in a cry, unstoppable, uncontainable. "No-o…No!"

What was left? What was left of his beliefs? What was left of him?

"Luke, you can destroy the Emperor. He has foreseen this. It is your _destiny_."

Vader's words brought Luke's face up, though in that moment he did not truly hear them. All he heard was the gale howling about him, the blood rushing in his ears. He watched Vader close his hand into a fist as he voiced shapeless words, watched him stretch out over the precipice, willing Luke to reach out, to take the hand offered.

"Join me and together we can rule the galaxy as father and son."

Luke faltered, lost…and as he looked down, he saw release. Freedom. Calm from the storm which burned through him now, searing his soul, fiery and caustic. Bitter truth. Too much to bear.

The void beckoned, promising serenity...and with it came a strange elation, a burst of adrenaline which gave faultless clarity. Time slowed as his heart beat fast, mind and soul committed now. He looked up to the creature who had so effortlessly ripped his heart from his chest, aware that he was smiling at it.

He would steal victory from its hands, even as it reached out to grasp it.

"Come with me. It is the only way."

Calm, euphoria, pacific tranquility filled his soul with effortless acceptance. In that moment, death was easy—living was too hard to bear. He released his hold…

Falling away to infinity.

 

 

Vader sensed it as the boy fell back; the stillness of spirit, the complex twist of choice and surrender, a Jedi's soul at peace with fate. For a moment he was absolutely still, lost in the moment, respectful and resentful.

Then reality closed and in a scarlet burst of horror one fact cried out in his mind: _My son!_

He reached out through the Force, hoping to slow the fall, to save the opportunity he had found and lost. But the distance was too great, panic clouding his perceptions…then the boy was gone.

For long seconds Vader stood at the rail, absolutely still, mind reaching out…searching….  
 _There! Alive!_

Far below…too far to reach. Then with a flare of shock the sense was lost, vanishing again in a flurry of movement.

But alive. Falling away still…

Fate had not yet finished with his son, Vader knew…nor himself, he felt.

Twisting away, he headed for his shuttle with new purpose in his stride.

 

 

 

 

 

"They'll be in range of our tractor beam in moments, My Lord." Admiral Piett hovered nearby, anxious to reprieve himself following his last debacle with this dilapidated Rebel freighter.

Vader did not bother to acknowledge the words, eyes trained out into the umbra of Bespin's atmosphere, senses straining, searching for the boy. That this damn freighter was here again to plague him was beyond belief—particularly since he had dispatched its cocksure pilot.

But he had heard his son call out through the Force, and as his Destroyer had come about the freighter had appeared on the forward scopes, racing through the thin atmosphere of the gas giant toward the underside of the city. Powering through open space just beyond Bespin's gravity, the Star Destroyer was slow and cumbersome to turn so that the tiny, maneuverable freighter had reached the city and blasted off for deep space before the _Executor_ had even leveled its huge bulk up.

But Vader was not concerned; he'd prepared for every eventuality. There was just too much at stake to take risks.

"Did your men deactivate the hyperdrive on the _Millennium Falcon_?" If they hadn't…

"Yes, My Lord," Piett acknowledged sharply.

He smiled—Vader _smiled_ beneath his mask. "Good. Prepare the boarding party…and set your weapons for stun."

"Yes, My Lord." Piett turned away to the young lieutenant nearby, who fairly blasted out his nervousness in the Force. "Lieutenant…"

"Yes, Sir," the young man said smartly, and Vader could sense his fear, his eagerness to get away.

Weak. All weak. Which of _them_ possessed the strength of spirit to be prepared to die for their convictions? A whole ship of their worthless hides could not equal the soul of one Jedi. Of his son…

 

 

Luke lay alone in absolute desolation, pain slicing up his arm with the staccato beat of his heart, his spine burning from the impact of the fall. Not one coherent thought could form in the chaotic jumble of his bewildered mind, the once-secure surroundings of the _Falcon's_ hold a distant blur about him. He stared sightlessly, absolutely still, unable to process the enormity of this revelation...

 _—Luke—_ The word coalesced from nothing in the centre of his mind, strangely compelling in that moment.

"Father?" Had he said that? Had he spoken that name out loud?

_—Son… come with me—_

Luke shook his head as he shrank back onto the bunk, broken and lost. "Ben…why didn't you tell me?"

Two huge impacts shook the _Falcon_ and Luke rose, dragging himself up against fatigue and pain, unable to stand the voice in the quiet hush of his solitude; unwilling to think of the consequences.

He walked in silence past the irate Chewie, half-hidden beneath deck plates, yelling back into the jabbering comm. Light-headed, reality a distant whisper, he reached the cockpit, strangely calm in the bedlam which seemed to boil all about him without ever touching him. The simple act of walking, of remaining upright, seemed to require such total concentration as to block out all other considerations.

Leia turned _—where was Han?_ The stranger who had helped him into the _Falcon_ paused to touch his arm, glancing down at the sterile unit which protected it now, concern in his eyes. Luke nodded once, wondering whether he should know the man _—_ in that second he had absolutely no idea _—_ then glanced up.

The Star Destroyer completely enveloped one side of the skies, the _Falcon_ tiny, a flea on a bantha as it struggled to outrun its imposing foe.

Luke sighed, exhausted past any sense of anxiety, only blank resignation remaining. How could they fight this? How had he ever thought they could win?

"It's Vader." He heard his own voice, low and hoarse, aware of Leia's eyes on him.

_—Luke…it is your destiny—_

Luke's breath caught and stilled as he shrank back, unable to block out the words which burned through his thoughts. Darkness swirled, but now it was different, strangely familiar; both repulsive and reassuring…calling him on, drawing him in.

He shook his head slowly against the pull, weary and empty and crushed. Why had they lied? Why? Why had they trained him to face his enemy yet left him with this huge, desperate, debilitating weakness?

Betrayed, by those he had trusted most. "Ben…why didn't you tell me?"

The _Falcon_ shook as TIE's harried her to destruction, and Chewie howled his frustration at recalcitrant machinery.

 

 

Threepio balanced against the bulkhead, severed foot in his hand as Artoo clanked uneasily across the deck towards the mainframe, ignoring his counterpart's alternate scolding and pleading.

Artoo, who had been in the back corridor onboard the _Tantive IV_ three years earlier, when Leia had needed to hide the Death Star plans. Artoo, who had carried the message to Kenobi. Artoo, who had shown Luke Skywalker the fragment, and changed his life forever.

"Artoo! Come back at once, you haven't finished with me yet! You don't know how to fix the hyperdrive _—_ Chewbacca can do it. I'm standing here in pieces…"

Artoo tracked determinedly across the hold, indifferent to his counterpart's alternate pleading and demands. Another heavy bolt wrenched at the _Falcon_ , careening her to one side faster than the artificial gravity could hope to counter. Threepio scrabbled momentarily, his metal hand slipping against the smooth pad of the bulkhead before he fell back in a flurry of noise. "Artooo!"

Distracted, Artoo paused on his way to the hyperdrive link-breaker, his intention to reconnect the hyperdrive at the point that Bespin's central computer had listed it as disengaged momentarily forgotten as his domed head spun back…

.

-:The univ _erse tilted_ :-

.

... Onboard the Star Destroyer, the Pit Officer lifted his hand in acknowledgement, searching for confirmation. "We have a lock. Admiral?"

"Engage," Piett ordered, not taking his eyes from the tiny freighter as it accelerated away from them…

Silence stretched for long seconds, the atmosphere tense and expectant.

"Positive lock, sir. Establishing back-up..."

Caught in the invisible beam which held it stationary as the Destroyer powered toward it, a moment's optical illusion occurred as the Rebel ship seemed to Piett to reverse course, speeding backwards to them whilst they remained stationary.

"Confirming secondary lock. Tractoring it into forward bay nine."

The words were spoken automatically now, everything in hand, procedure being followed. Still, Piett waited until the Pit Officer confirmed that the ship was aboard before he dared turn away...

"We have acknowledgement. The ship's in F-nine, sir, full lock-down. Boarding parties are on the deck."

Piett turned and hurried after Lord Vader, relieved; his job was done now. Anything which happened from here on in was on General Veer's head.

 

 

 

"Son of a…"

Luke had watched, helpless, as the Destroyer loomed about them, the _Falcon_ pulled inexorably closer.

A lurching jolt had yanked them all from their seats and brought reality snapping in about him, harsh and unyielding. And seconds _—_ just _seconds_ too late _—all_ hyperdrive functions came back on-line, status lights momentarily illuminating green before they flashed red, unable to operate against the pull of a tractor beam.

Adrenaline pumping, galvanized into action, Luke spun round and set off from the cockpit at full tilt, his wounded arm still clutched to his chest. He was halfway down the corridor, Chewie rushing towards him from the opposite direction, when the pain exploded up his spine, dropping his legs beneath him as he fell to the ground with a yelp.

Chewie dashed forward, howling as Luke doubled up on the deck, beyond words. Distantly he heard Leia call his name, but in that moment he couldn't even turn his head against the wracking waves of pain which burst through him. Chewie gathered him up, the burning agony which knifed into Luke's spine unbearable at this, making him call out before blackness narrowed his vision to nothing.

The last thing he felt was the touch of Vader's mind as the darkness closed in…

"…uke…ke…ca.. hea…

"…have…wa…up…got to…

"Luke…Luke, can…hear me?"

He opened his eyes slowly, not daring to move. Leia crouched over him in the med-bay, hand to his cheek, and Chewie whuffed in the background, leaning in past the dark stranger who…

It occurred belatedly to Luke that Han was still not there. Previously, he'd simply assumed he was elsewhere on the _Falcon_ , but the realization burst through his thoughts now as he automatically reached out with the Force, searching for his friend.

"Han?" he managed, "where's…?"

Leia looked away, avoiding his eyes, so he turned to Chewie, who threw his head back and keened a long cry. It needed no further explanation.

Taking hold of the edge of the bunk Luke hauled himself upright, gasping against the pain that lanced down his back. Leia pushed against him. "No, Luke. The fall's injured your spine, you have to rest. Stay…"

The heavy double-clang of the _Falcon's_ landing gear setting roughly down was all the further encouragement he needed.

"Like hell." He was already on the edge of the bunk, biting back the fireworks which burst at every movement. "Chewie, I need a blaster."

Chewie turned without argument, almost throwing the stranger aside in his haste.

From the main hold, the sound of cutters engaging whistled a low note, turning everyone's head.

"Three minutes. Probably less," the stranger guessed, sharp, dark eyes searching the corridor. He turned the other way, shouting loudly, "Chewie, make it two!"

"Three!" Leia added, voice like steel.

She turned as Luke stood, shaky and nauseous, his maimed arm still pressed to him. Burning now, throbbing in time to his heartbeat at the effort of standing.

"Vader," she murmured, searching eyes on Luke. "What does he want?"

"Where's Han?" Luke avoided.

"Vader…tested CloudCity's industrial carbon-freeze unit on him. To use on you."

"He's alive?" Somehow, that one thought displaced so much misery in that moment. The crafty old Corellian was alive _—_ he'd live to fight another day.

Leia nodded, though her voice was small. "Vader gave him to a bounty hunter, to take to Jabba the Hutt."

The Hutt; Han owed him, Luke knew. He'd kept threatening to leave to pay the debt off, but there was always one more repair to make on the _Falcon_.

Luke glanced again at the well-dressed stranger as Chewie rushed back in, bowcaster over his shoulder, an armful of blasters weighing him down.

The first sparks lit the bay behind them in an actinic glow. Threepio came barreling through, heading in the opposite direction, not even slowing in that moment.

Luke took the blaster, steadying himself against the bulkhead just out of the entrance's direct line of fire. He felt desperately weak, his head spinning just from the strain of standing. Tiny floating spots lit his vision, and he wasn't sure whether they came from the cutter in the bay or his own frail state. He hoped the former, but suspected the latter. His body was screaming out to rest now, so much so that he feared he might simply keel over at any moment.

_Ignore it, there'll be time to rest when this is over._

He was dimly aware somewhere in the back of his mind that this wouldn't be over for a long time…

Movement caught his eye, pulling him back into the moment as a stray thought occurred. "Chewie, deactivate the droids. They'll leave them in the ship."

As if all this was a momentary complication, as if they'd be back in an hour or so, when they'd dealt with it. As if.

Still, Chewie whuffed assent as he turned and headed after Artoo and Threepio.

Leia took position against the far wall, her gaze tight and pinched as she glanced up to Luke. "What does he want?" she repeated.

"Me," Luke said simply.

"Why?"

The door exploded inwards through a flaring shower of sparks, the pressure change popping Luke's ears as he ducked back from the shrapnel. They must have used charges.

He glanced to Leia to make sure she was alright, back to the others…

Then he turned and opened fire.

 

 

Vader stood in the bay, General Veers beside him, as stormtroopers poured into the freighter.

Blaster fire ensued, intensified…

Their forward progress thwarted, the stormtroopers faltered, unwilling to risk the path through the bottleneck of the ship's narrow entry ramp when it was so effectively defended. Vader scowled, turning slightly to Veers, who pressed the headset to his ear, frowning against the cacophony of noise.

"Lieutenant, fall back. Use shock grenades…no, no, set them to stun."

"Send them in," Vader said simply, causing Veers to glance up sharply.

"My Lord?"

"Send them in. I want to see what he does." Vader turned back to the freighter, feeling no need to validate his order further.

He could sense Luke now, feel his resentment, his frustration, his betrayal. Could it be pushed over into fury?

His own anger was simmering too. Frustration at the boy's stubborn refusal on Cloud City, at his defiance here. He had offered the boy everything _—everything—_ and he had turned it down, turned away. Had made his choice very clear. Foolish _—_ to give up so much for simple sentiment.

Vader frowned at that consideration… Had it been a refusal of his offer _—_ or of him? That thought hurt; that the boy had acted out of repulsion. It stung as it had never done before, that someone would judge him and find him wanting. It bit deep.

And fury rose against it _;_ that his own son would do this, his own blood.

How _dare_ he judge…

Vader strode forward, stormtroopers falling instantly back to give him room.

 

 

The noise within the _Falcon's_ hold was incredible, a low cloud of acrid smoke billowing at roof-level, burning the back of Luke's throat. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recognized the futility of his action _—_ they all did _. I_ t gained them nothing save to exercise their defiance; given the numbers of troopers available to throw at them, the status-quo remained exactly as before.

Several white-clad troopers had fallen just inside the hold, slowing others who tried to make their way through, the bulkhead about Luke and Leia pockmarked with smoldering blast-holes. Luke's blaster was running hot in his hand now, probably close to exhausting its charge. Stupidly, he reflected that it couldn't possibly get any worse _—_

Then the troopers fell back in a flurry…and a huge, dark form strode purposefully into the ship, the dense black smoke swirling in perfect eddies about him.

Leia backstepped as Chewie threw out a howling challenge.

For long seconds all the blasters stopped, the silence ringing in Luke's ears…

Loud and heavy, Vader's breathing dragged through the air... Then Luke took two long steps forward and fired.

And again…and again…and again.

He knew of course that it wouldn't stop Vader. It didn't even slow him, as he lifted his black-gloved hand to deflect the bolts; simply batted them aside to burst into showers of incandescent sparks against the walls.

But it didn't stop Luke firing.

And it didn't stop Vader stalking forward.

 

 

Leia watched the surreal vision unfold, swirled about with heavy smoke and bright, flaring flashes as Vader stepped closer, unstoppable, and Luke kept on firing. Just…kept on firing, like a man possessed.

Finally Vader stood level with Luke, towering over him as Luke held his blaster at arm's length with his one good arm, pointed squarely at the Dark Lord, the tip of the barrel almost resting against his chestplate.

For long moments they remained frozen like that, silence screaming in her ears after the battery of noise.

"Shoot," Vader rumbled deeply, his voice laced with barely-controlled anger.

Leia could see Luke's arm trembling, his whole body tensed against the need to act.

Yet he stood _—_ he just stood stock still.

She wanted to yell, to shout out that he should shoot. _Kill him. He won't be able to deflect a point-blank shot. Shoot! Pull the trigger!_

And still Luke hesitated, though he must know this, somehow unable in that moment to act, though she couldn't conceive of why. Luke had fought against this nemesis for all the time she had known him _—_ against Vader; his father's murderer, the Emperor's henchman. _Pull the trigger!_

They remained still, Luke's finger on the trigger, Vader staring down in still silence, the moment stretching for eons…

The movement, when it came, was shocking in its speed.

Vader's hand whipped around, violently knocking the blaster from Luke's grip to clatter away to the deck, though he didn't respond at all, his eyes remaining locked on that dark mask, as if he could somehow see past to the man hidden within.

Still they stood, frozen, immersed in some private battle.

With the speed of a viper, Vader brought his arm back in a massively powerful swing. The backhand blow connected with Luke's face to snap his head to the side, the strike so strong as to throw him backward into the bulkhead though he remained somehow upright, as Leia cried out in shock.

" _Never_ point a weapon at me again," Vader growled, cold fury in his voice.

Slowly, very slowly, Luke pulled his wits about him then turned, taking a single step to stand in exactly the same spot, arms down, eyes unyielding.

Without hesitation Vader landed a second blow, no punch pulled, the motion combining all the considerable strength of his shoulder and arm to power Luke back into the bulkhead.

Leia cried out his name, stepping forward to be caught by Lando's grip tight on her arm, everyone's eyes locked on the bizarre scene playing out before them. Luke remained leaning against the bulkhead, head lowered for long seconds, breathing heavily. Several drops of deep, viscous scarlet dripped to the deck plates at his feet, the silence dragging like a bowstring across Leia's fraught nerves, taut with anticipation and shock.

Finally Luke hauled himself straight again and paused, wavering dangerously, his hand to the bulkhead. Then he turned to face Vader, his chin lifted in resolute defiance, the blood from a deep cut which split his lip trailing a crimson line down his chin to bloom in a spreading stain on his tattered jacket.

They faced each other, the stillness brittle, stretched to breaking…

Vader's arm wheeled back again.

Luke tensed for the blow _—_ but he _would not_ blink.

Vader's hand stopped inches from his face, the blow stayed, though Leia couldn't imagine why; the Sith Lord was not known for his mercy _—_ nor his compassion.

For several seconds they remained like this, that same private battle of wills being fought out…

Slowly Vader's hand lowered…and Luke's shoulders slumped just slightly. Leia stared in shocked silence, unable to even begin to reason what was taking place, knowing only what this must be costing Luke.

Knowing he couldn't maintain it…but knowing he wouldn't back down.

Finally, with a shallow sigh Luke's head rolled slightly…then he pitched forward, unconscious.

Vader stepped in, arms stretching out _—_ for what, Leia couldn't guess…

Then he caught Luke gently, one hand to his chest, the other about his arm, and lowered him softly to the ground, taking his weight as he fell and crouching to one knee beside him, one huge black-gloved hand beneath Luke's head.

"Luke…" he said quietly, his voice wracked with feeling in that moment; genuine, human emotion.

Leia could only watch in bewildered confusion as Darth Vader twisted back to the officer at the _Falcon's_ hatch, voice tight with warring emotions.

"Where are the medics!" he hissed harshly, making the officer pale as he turned to shout out onto the deck.

They were there in an instant, three of them crowding about Luke as Vader stepped back. _In an instant_ …had they been waiting? If so, for whom…for Luke? Why would Vader bother to summon medics to tend to a Rebel? Everything was happening too fast, spinning away from Leia's comprehension with dizzying speed. Stormtroopers came rushing in now, crowding about Leia, Chewie and Lando to bind their hands and push them forwards past the medics in the hold, still gathered about Luke's unconscious form.

"Luke!" Leia finally found her voice at the realization that they would be separated.

Vader looked up, faceless mask swiveling to her.

She yanked at the trooper who held her, dragging him to a momentary halt. "Where are you taking him!"

"Away from you," Vader rumbled, turning back dismissively.

The trooper wrenched at Leia, hauling her forward again, shocked into silence by the accusing venom in Vader's voice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

**CHAPTER TWO **

 

 

 

The prisoner lay very still on the medi-bay scanner, his breathing slow and shallow, his face covered in innumerable grazes and fine cuts, others slicing deeper into the fabric of his ragged jacket and the flesh of his shoulder and arm. His eyes were closed and his mouth slightly open, jaw relaxed in unconsciousness.

"Well?" Vader prompted curtly.

The medic, Nathan Hallin, glanced up at Lord Vader nervously, unsure of why the unconscious man was here anyway, and not in the dedicated but rather more limited medi-bay within the detention level, where all the others had been taken. He'd been summoned with a small trauma team to the docking bay as a dilapidated freighter had been taken aboard and forcibly grounded, given no further explanation as a deafening firefight blazed about him then, after agonizing moments of absolute silence, called into the ship to treat what was clearly a Rebel, judging from his uniform.

Hallin had been on Vader's personal staff for less than a season, chosen by Vader to replace an existing member whose skills he exceeded, and wasn't yet well-versed with the finer points of his promotion. But he was a fast learner.

"Aside from…the obvious—" Hallin hesitated, then said it anyway, "the loss of his hand—he has contusions, several deeper lacerations and concussion. More seriously, some acute nerve damage to his upper thoracic spine; compression and displacement of discs and vertebrae consistent with an impact or a fall. Nothing irreparable, if it's treated immediately."

"He collapsed because of?" Vader prompted curtly.

"The nerve damage. It's significant enough to bring anyone down. I understand he'd just received several…severe blows to the head, which probably aggravated the upper spinal injury. His system probably just couldn't process any more damage and simply shut down." Intensely aware of the brooding silence from the huge figure to his side, the slim, slight medic began to back-pedal. "To be honest, I'm surprised he was standing anyway, considering the damage. Plus, he is concussed. Taking into account all of his…injuries…"

Hallin trailed off, aware that he was simply digging a deeper and deeper hole.

Finally, unable to stand the silence any longer, he tried, "We should…begin treatment to relieve pressure on the nerves along T-four to T-eight on his spine. That's a time-critical injury, My Lord. The hand less so, though the sooner we wet-wire AR nerves into biological ones the easier it is to integrate them, and for the patient to adapt."

It occurred belatedly to Hallin that neither of these procedures may be an option since the patient was clearly a prisoner, judging from the amount of troopers staged in and about his medi-bay. It would be far more in keeping with Hallin's still-limited experience with Lord Vader for him to simply wish to know what was wrong, rather than what could be done to repair it. If the young man was a Rebel as Hallin guessed, then he was facing the death penalty anyway, which made it rather a waste of everyone's time and of Hallin's considerable ability…

"Treat him. Whatever is necessary," Vader said, bringing Hallin's head round in surprise.

"Yes, My Lord," Hallin acknowledged, trying to hide his shock.

Vader almost made to leave before a further thought occurred. "Are any complications possible?"

"Complications?" Hallin hesitated, unsure what Vader was getting at; it surely wasn't concern. He turned back to the prisoner, considering. "The neural procedures to the spine carry a risk in terms of possible secondary nerve damage and the length of time under anesthetic, but the droids who perform the procedure are very competent. The limb replacement is only a local anesthetic and so carries no risks, though it's a long procedure. If we use a more basic replacement..."

"No. Use the best available. Do you have everything necessary here?"

A thought occurred to Hallin now—a reason for the man's being here rather than in the Detention Level, and for Lord Vader's apparent concern—perhaps this was an Imperial spy? A trooper from the 501st even, Lord Vader's own battalion. Would that warrant this level of concern? If so, then Hallin would be expected to display the same.

"Of course, My Lord. Should I use…" He stumbled, uncertain how to ask, "standard medical staff?"

"Are there others more competent?"

"There are several specialists in your own team who are presently onboard, if you wish to ensure an exemplary job."

"Use them. Whatever you need." Vader turned his wide bulk to Hallin, stepping in to tower over the slender medic. "I assign his health to you, Hallin. I expect no mistakes… I shall be displeased with any misstep."

"Yes, Lord Vader." Unlike everything else, that was crystal clear. "Should I…does he have a name? How would you like him referred to in the log?" Hallin felt certain now that the badly-injured man was some kind of agent in Vader's employ, which left him unsure what Vader would wish entered into the ship's medical log.

 

 

Vader paused for a long time, considering, his gaze on the unconscious youth. "His name is Luke. He is my son."

The medic's eyes widened in shock, though to his credit he made no other move. Vader could almost see that fast mind working through the facts though, changing gear accordingly.

"I understand, Lord Vader. I understand completely," Hallin reassured quickly.

Feeling he had now made the repercussions _very_ clear, Vader left Hallin to his work.

Striding from the medi-bay, Vader considered his actions. It had been a momentous act to him, to acknowledge his son _as_ his son. He felt…what? Uneasy emotions conflicted, long-lost whispers at the edge of his thoughts; at his son's rejection of him, at dim memories of a distant past. Awareness of his Master's plans, of the boy's inevitable part in them. Of what it would demand of his son—what it would take from him.

Some deeper feeling welled, fed by the boy's presence…

He had, of course, known of his son for almost a year now, as soon as the Emperor's spies had tracked down the name of the pilot who had destroyed the Death Star. The rarity of the name, the nebulous feelings Vader had sensed when chasing down that X-Wing above the Death Star, the simple fact that the anonymous pilot had made that impossible shot…it hadn't been hard to come to the obvious conclusion.

Over the past year, Vader had alternately felt so sure that this was somehow the son he had believed lost with his mother on her death, then wracked with doubt that it could possibly be true, that such things were occasionally allowed by fate.

Terrified, both that it would be a lie or that it would be true.

And then Luke had come to Cloud City, his presence in the Force shining out, and Vader had _known_ in a way deeper than any facts his spies could bring him.

This was his _son_. His child—his legacy.

And to say that—to speak it out loud for the first time—felt…good. Though it did nothing to interpret deeper, wildly warring feelings on the matter.

What it did clarify however, beyond question for those around him, was the level of commitment he expected of them in this. That was his intention in saying it, he reasoned, stepping easily back from the momentary burst of rare sentiment. That, and nothing else. And if it turned out that it was not the Emperor's wish to have this information disseminated…well then, nobody was indispensable.

 

 

 

 

 

It was early in the morning when the man began to come round from the anesthetic, the scanners which surrounded him registering changes in brain activity and sounding out a tone.

Hallin stepped quickly into the room. He was deathly tired but hadn't slept yet, wanting to wait until the man had come round to make sure that all was well before he dare retire. Now he checked the IV feeds, glancing nervously at the condition readouts above the scanner, which remained worryingly erratic after the protracted surgery time, and reaching out a hand to one of the 4-OneBee droid as it approached with a small hand-held scanner as a second droid removed the oxygen feed.

Surprisingly, as Hallin was resting the scanner to the man's temples he brought his left arm up and wrapped his hand weakly about the medic's, attempting to push it away.

"Luke, can you hear me? My name is Hallin, I'm a medic. You've just had a surgical procedure and you need to try to remain very still. Do you understand?"

The man's eyes fluttered open briefly as he pawed clumsily at the IV feed in his arm, but he gave no other sign of genuine awareness. Hallin turned to the medical droid. "Do you have an EM scanner?"

"No, sir. I'll go and…"

"No, I have one in my office. I'll just be a moment."

When he returned less than a minute later it was to a scene of mystifying confusion, though for a moment he didn't realize, his tired brain struggling to register the unthinkable. The 4-OneBee stood exactly where he had left it, but it was now inactive, the lights in its eyes dark, motionless head still bent in regard of its patient…who was no longer there. Panicking, Hallin rushed up to the scanner bed whose white cloth was stained by several drops of blood surrounding the removed IV feeds. For long seconds Hallin just stared, eyes moving repeatedly between the deactivated droid and the empty bed…

Two blaster shots from the corridor beyond made his heart skip a beat and finally brought movement to immobile limbs. Dashing headlong into the brightly-lit corridor, he saw his patient leaning heavily against the wall to his left, barely upright, with a gaggle of stormtroopers about him in the corridor raising their blasters as they backed up.

" _NO_!" he shouted, running forward. "Don't shoot!"

By the time he reached him, the half-awake man had taken several faltering steps down the corridor whilst the troopers held to a wide semi-circle round him, blasters ready.

"Don't hurt him! He's coming round from surgery. He's just…"

"You have one minute to get him back in the bay, medic. Then we bring him down our way." The commanding stormtrooper's voice was clipped through his mask comm, but lost none of its threat.

"Fine… Fine, just stay back." Hallin stepped forward as another three medics appeared from the medi-bay, drawn by the commotion.

"Sir, three of the medical droids are…" one of them began, before finally realizing what was going on around him and trailing to silence.

"Fetch me a hypo, load it with a dose of Sinorin. Quickly!" Hallin hissed into the shocked medic's face.

Hallin hesitated at his next order…but the stormtroopers were a law unto themselves and this was turning very quickly into a situation he knew he couldn't control—and Lord Vader had made him directly responsible for the man. He turned to the second medic, his voice tinged with urgency.

"Contact Lord Vader directly. Use the comlink in my office. Tell him what's happening."

The white-faced man nodded, backing up to dash back into the medi-bay.

The patient had taken several more faltering steps down the hallway now, ignoring the troopers who kept a constant, set distance around him. His bare feet dragged as he paused, leaning his shoulder against the wall to leave a scarlet smear as he started forward again, his bruised and battered torso bare, a pair of white drawstring sleep-trousers his only clothing.

How was he _doing_ this!

Uncertain, having never seen anyone recover this quickly from a full anesthetic, Hallin stepped toward him, his eyes drawn uneasily to the long, fresh scar running down the man's bare back just above his shoulder blades. This type of surgery was very delicate, not meant to have any stress put on it so soon.

_How is the man standing…how is he awake at all?!_

Level with him now, terrified that he would collapse at any moment causing further damage, Hallin placed his hand gently on the man's shoulder. "Please stop. You're injuring yourself—you have to stop."

The man slowed at this though he didn't turn, still resting his weight on his shoulder against the wall, his injured, bandaged arm clutched to his heaving chest, his shoulders dropping.

The troops about him all closed in slightly, and his head snapped up again, eyes focused dangerously on them. As one they brought their guns to bear, incredibly wary considering the state of the man they surrounded.

Glancing at them, open hand out to restrain them, Hallin realized for the first time that there were four troopers on the floor against the far wall, blasters scattered about them. Had this man done that? Surely not—how could he possibly...? Memory of the blaster-shots whirled back into Hallin's thoughts…

A medic came running from the bay behind him, holding out the hypo. _Finally!_ Hallin grabbed it and turned quickly back to the man, thumb on the release…

And something inexplicable happened.

Somehow… _somehow_ as he turned, he… His arm twisted back as if pushed, so that he ended up with the hypo pressed against his own body—and released the tranquilizer's full dose. He managed to turn to the other medic and whisper, "Antidote…" before his knees gave way.

When he came to, he was leaning awkwardly up with his back against the wall, the other two medics knelt about him, one repeating his name as the other gently tapped at his face.

"I'm…give me…" he managed, still struggling against the effects of the Sinorin, though the antidote was beginning to work through his system now.

He dragged his head around to see the stormtroopers still gathered at a wary distance about the injured man, who had pushed away from the wall, swaying, unable to go any further.

"Don't let them fire…keep them…" He managed to half-lift a hand to point, and one of the medics realized and set forward.

"Don't let him fall…" Hallin's voice was small and breathless and he tried again, struggling to stand. "Don't let him…"

Then the turbolift door at the edge of his vision slid open and a huge black form emerged to step into the bright white of the Star Destroyer's corridor. Lord Vader took everything in with a single glance, and in that moment was completely in control.

" _STOP!"_ His voice was loud and low and gave no room for misunderstanding. Everyone in the corridor was immediately reduced to a frozen silence.

" _MOVE BACK!"_ he barked—and the stormtroopers immediately withdrew, lowering their guns.

Hallin turned at the sound of a low sigh, half-exhaustion, half frustration, to see the injured man collapse to his knees in the still silence, slumping back to sit on his heels, head low, swaying unsteadily.

Lord Vader strode down the corridor, passing the downed troopers without a sideways glance, passing Hallin as he finally struggled to his feet, passing the silent and nervous medics and the armed stormtroopers who shied away from their imposing superior. When he reached the hunched man he crouched to one knee before him and studied him in silence for a long time, his huge, wide bulk dwarfing the smaller man. Chest and feet bare, battered and bruised and sutured, he seemed incredibly vulnerable beneath the black-armored austerity of his captor.

"Where are you going?" Vader finally asked, his quiet reproach tempered yet completely emotionless in the face of the willful, struggling man's obvious pain.

The man lifted his head with difficulty, the effort of staying even this upright clearly draining him, his frailty becoming more and more obvious, every reserve now spent.

Strangely, though Hallin didn't hear him speak, Lord Vader replied as if he had. "They are unharmed. You would do better to worry about yourself."

This time Hallin heard a word, little more than a sigh.

"…Han...?"

Again Lord Vader was silent for a long time, head slightly to one side. Then, the tone of his voice indicating some concession being made, he allowed, "I will retrieve him."

He reached forward to the slumped man whose breathing was becoming ever-more ragged. "And you will rest."

It wasn't so much the offer of a deal as a statement of the way things would be.

 

 

Luke's head was sagging, his whole body trembling with fatigue.

Still, he leaned back, trying without success to lift his arm against the overbearing ebony shadow which stretched out to him, though all consideration of resistance was gone now, all strength sapped. The lights split in his vision and everything began a slow, deliberate turn, as if gravity were momentarily disengaged. His head swam, the walls spun, everything twisted every direction at once.

 _Focus! Stop this!_ He called to himself the one thing he could always trust.

The Force was a cool burst of fleeting clarity, but he sensed the Darkness at its edges, pressing in, reaching out.

Reaching out…

He tried to lift his head to focus on the dark, hulking figure before him but even that was beyond him now. His breathing shallowed as he became aware that he was struggling for air, then he toppled forward, unable to stop himself, reality spiraling about him as the floor rushed up toward him.

Strong arms caught him then lifted him from the floor as if he were a child, the action lighting a trail of fire down his spine, though in that moment he was past caring. Everything churned in his hazy vision, no up, no down, waves of awareness between blank, black voids. Voices raised in concern, though he couldn't seem to process the words, nothing reaching through the thick, dull haze which enveloped him and pressed down, stealing any thought save that of simply breathing, and even that faltering. All sound reduced to a single tone which sang in his head as his pounding heart shook his whole body with every labored beat. Too hard to breathe now, too hard to try, the exertion of lifting his chest unthinkable.

Each gasp came a little shallower until he could do nothing but descend into the still, crimson-tinged darkness, unwilling to fight anymore.

 

 

Hallin leaned in to support the man's head as Vader lowered him onto the scanner-bed, adrenaline forcing the medic wide awake as medi-droids closed in, activating readout fields so that the information began to appear as a streaming display at the end of the bed. He glanced up, all business, checking the readouts as he took the offered IV from the droid to insert the needle.

Lord Vader ignored him completely, his hand resting on the unconscious man's chest.

Hallin turned back to the medical readouts as a warning sounded. "He's going into shock."

The IV feed filled with fluid and Luke's eyelids fluttered momentarily—

" _NO!"_ Vader reached out and folded the tube closed. "Take it out!"

Hallin physically jumped at the ferocity of his outburst. "What?"

"Take it out. No drugs—it will interfere with his connection to the Force."

Hallin's eyes widened as he shrank back, but afraid as he was, some basic commitment cut in and he spoke out against Vader. "He…the surgery, My Lord; he shouldn't have moved, he's going into shock. His condition is very serious…"

As if to back him up, the medi-bay began again to sound its low alarm tone. Hallin glanced back at the display, then at Lord Vader's gloved hand still holding the IV tube folded, and spoke the hard truth. "His blood pressure's dropping dangerously low. The drugs will stabilize him until his body can…."

"No. He is a Jedi. He will drop into a trance, heal himself…if you don't interfere."

Hallin frowned; he was a medical man and simply didn't have time for this—

"Do as I say," Vader rumbled, the threat evident in his tone.

Hallin hesitated; as far as he was concerned, the Force was a myth, an entertainment for those too gullible to see the truth. He knew, of course, what people who were close to them said of Lord Vader and of the Emperor, but he had seen nothing in the two months that he'd been on Lord Vader's staff to merit any re-evaluation of his own beliefs. But he was a military medic and Lord Vader's subordinate. If Vader wished to test some theory, then it was within his rights to do so—certainly nobody here was about to stop him.

So why did Hallin remain frozen in place?

The medical alarm rose a pitch, demanding resolution. Wasn't this Vader's _son_? Why would he risk this? How could he?

That black mask turned on him, the voice from within broaching no argument. "Take it out."

"Of course," Hallin finally acknowledged, his voice flat, laced with defeat. "You understand…he will go deeper into shock, probably cardiac arrest without some form of intervention to stabilize him…"

As he spoke he slid out the IV, keeping his eyes on the readouts, awaiting the inevitable.

Vader didn't turn, didn't look to the display at all. He simply stared at the failing man.

They didn't have to wait long… The scanner changed to a constant tone and readouts began to flash red.

"He's gone below prescribed levels…" Hallin said flatly, his own heart beating fast in his chest. It was against everything he'd been taught, everything he'd ever believed, to stand by and simply watch when he could so easily prevent this.

"…His heart's going into fibrillation…" Seconds away now…

Vader's voice was low and quiet, barely a whisper, but Hallin heard it anyway, the raw emotion hidden by the mask all too audible in the hoarse words which drew Hallin's eyes to Lord Vader as he hissed down at the dying man, " _Fight!"_

Still the scanners registered the failing vital signs of the youth, and Hallin felt his own head shake as he looked back to the man. Unable to help himself, he reached out his hand to place it lightly on his patient's forehead, knowing it would offer no help but somehow needing, in those final moments, to offer some kind of succor.

Finally Vader relented, stepping back and turning quickly to Hallin. "Help him!"

He didn't need telling twice. Galvanized into action he stepped forward, arm out to the medi-droid. "Adrenaline—240 in a DR needle! Now!"

He stretched his hand out over the man's chest, automatically feeling for the spot between his ribs, hoping it wasn't too late, fearing it was. As he took the needle, a change in the scanner tone made him turn…

Two of the readouts had risen from critical back toward normal limits. Frowning, he stared at the display in blank confusion. _How...?_

A third climbed back within limits as the man's vital signs began to stabilize.

Vader reached his arm out to gently push Hallin back from the patient, whose irregular breathing was beginning to even. The medic frowned, speechless as he looked down to the man on the bed, whose blue lips were beginning to redden, color returning to waxen skin.

What the hell was _happening?_

It took less than a minute for the readouts to stabilize—not even nearly to normal; the man remained in a serious condition—but to climb from critical. To step back, quite miraculously, from the edge.

Some signs remained incredibly elevated though—brain activity and oxygen levels were exceptionally high…

Was this…. Hallin hardly dare even consider it.

Lord Vader turned to him, bass voice perfectly even now, distant and emotionless. "Learn and adapt, if you are to serve him. He is a Jedi…all previous knowledge and boundaries are gone. You were right to contact me, however. Do so earlier, next time."

With that he turned and left. Hallin watched him, a dark silhouette against the bright light of the corridor beyond. Then he was left alone, to look back down in mute wonderment at the Jedi.

 

 

 

 

 

Luke was woken from a fitful, disturbed sleep by the realization of who was near.

He'd spent the night in a detention cell, pretty much dragged there by Vader when he'd made his third attempt to leave the medi-center only a day after the first.

By the time Vader had arrived he'd already been forced to stop, stormtroopers ahead of and behind him, but this time he'd gotten much further into the ship. Still slow and breathless, still frail, but awake this time; aware enough to find his bearings, clarify where exactly he was in relation to where he needed to get to…and more importantly, how to get there. Next time.

Vader had arrived seething, simply striding up to Luke as he had leaned weakly against the wall for support, grabbing him by the arm, turning him about and dragging him down the corridor. Luke hadn't even had the strength left to fight; to shout out or struggle as he was half-dragged, half-marched through the Destroyer, Vader's grip unyielding, the sound of many stormtroopers' boots behind them. All of his energy had gone into simply staying upright.

Still in medi-center whites, feet bare, he had been deposited—practically thrown—into an empty cell whose roof curved down to the floor in a concave dome, and whose only notable feature was a huge, thick pillar in the centre of the room. Half-collapsing in exhaustion at the forced march, vision tunneling, chest heaving, he'd been only vaguely aware of the techs who had gathered about him as he'd collapsed against the pillar, struggling to find the strength to stand again.

"If you _act_ like you are a prisoner here, you will be _treated_ as one," Vader had finally accused, frustration and irritation clipping his words.

Cryptically as far as Luke was concerned; what did Vader _think_ he was?

He was a Rebel soldier being held captive by the Empire and he would take any opportunity presented to escape—or at the very least cause havoc. A sting of pain had drawn Luke's eyes to his ankle, where the techs were using some kind of hand-held device to seal two fine metallic cables about each, the other ends of which were already looped around the thick pillar.

"They are unbreakable," Vader had said needlessly. "You could, of course, use the Force to bring down the pillar, but since the roof rests upon it, I would not advise it."

He stared in silence for a long time at Luke—waiting for what Luke hadn't known. Unable to summon the strength to even speak yet, he could only glare back, open animosity in his eyes, his chest heaving as he'd still struggled for breath.

Finally Vader had turned and left. The hiss of a hermetic seal had sounded as the heavy door pulled closed, to be followed seconds later by the sound of a second outer door doing the same with a solid, impenetrable finality.

Vader—nothing else; no connection, not his… Luke still couldn't even begin to think of the man in those terms…and it was becoming easier to just ignore it now. He knew who Vader was; what he was. And he knew exactly his relationship to him: enemy to soldier, Imperial to Rebel. He neither wanted nor needed those perceptions altering.

So now, as he recognized that grudgingly familiar sense approaching outside his cell, his eyes opened then narrowed though he didn't move otherwise, remaining on the hard floor where he had slept, laid on his side to favor the sutures down his back, facing away from the entrance.

The outer door grated open, followed a few seconds later by the inner one. Heavy footsteps walked forward then halted.

Silence, in which Luke forced his breathing to even, jaw tightening.

"I know that you are awake," Vader said at last, his tone quiet and calm, but still blunt and unyielding.

"Leave," Luke said, not even turning.

"I wish to speak with you," Vader rumbled, as if that were reason enough to comply.

"I _don't_ wish to speak with you."

"Then you will listen," Vader said curtly.

With little real choice, Luke pushed himself painfully up to lean a shoulder against the thick post, the cables twisting about his ankles as he did so. The scathing, derisive fury in his voice when he spoke surprised even himself. "Fine…go ahead."

He had the momentary gratification of seeing Vader pause, uncertain. "Go ahead," he invited again through tight lips. "You want me to listen—I'm listening."

"You are _not_ listening," Vader said, shaking his head slightly. "You do not intend to listen to anything I say."

"Have you finished?"

Vader said nothing, merely stared.

"Good. Then leave."

"You are judging me without knowing the facts."

"No, I'm judging you _on_ the facts," Luke bit out. "I'm in a detention cell being taken against my will to Imperial Center. The person who put me in here has injured my friends for no other reason than to get my attention, and is now intending to deliver me and them to a man who will surely kill us all when I won't do as he asks. The person who put me in here _knows_ this as well as I do, and yet still that door remains locked. _That_ is the man I'm judging."

"You are so stubborn," Vader said at last, shaking his head in frustration.

"And you're blind," Luke accused angrily. "Willfully so. Because I don't believe you can't see what will happen."

"The choice of what will happen is yours."

"I've made my choices. I made them years ago. None of this…" even now, he couldn't bring himself to say it, "changes them."

"Your choices were made without the facts."

Luke only looked away. "I had the ones that mattered."

"Only to them."

"And I suppose you'll give me the truth?" His words were laced with caustic disbelief.

"Why do you believe me any less capable of that than Obi-Wan?"

"Because I'm _here_ ," Luke replied, incredulous that Vader could even ask. "Like this. Because my friends are here…"

"You would do well to forget them. They are an unnecessary weakness."

Luke shot him a disbelieving, outraged stare, but he continued with relentless logic.

"The Emperor will use them to control you. That is why they are here."

"Then let them go." It was half-request, half-challenge. It was the first time he looked to his father's eyes.

"I cannot."

Luke turned away, unsurprised. "Do you do everything he tells you?"

"You do not know him." The tone of Vader's voice revealed little but for a moment—just an instant—Luke's temper softened to something more compassionate. Then he blinked and turned away, rubbing tiredly at his temples.

"Well, I'm about to," he said, exhausted, the frustrated implication in his words clear.

"It does not have to be this way. The offer I made on Bespin remains—will always remain." He declared this as if he were offering some kind of gift, not condemning Luke to Darkness. "I can teach you, show you a power that will make you invulnerable. Luke, you have the ability to destroy him."

"How would you possibly know?" Luke's voice was tired and dismissive.

"Because I know who you are. I know what you are— _the truth_. They have shown you only a fragment of that which you are capable of, by their own choice. I know your aptitude…your capability. They could only ever teach you competence, because that is all they know. I can show you mastery."

"To do what? Fulfill your ambitions?" Luke challenged.

"Fulfill your own potential," Vader countered.

"As it suits you."

 

 

Vader fell silent, unaccustomed to this—all of it. If the boy would relent, just a little, if he would just open his mind to the possibility that Kenobi was wrong and Vader right. How could he explain, how could he make the boy understand?

"Luke… you are not like them. _We_ are not like them." The boy remained unmoved, face stubbornly turned away. "Understand what you are—know what you are capable of. Your lineage, your bloodline. I can give you that knowledge, make you realize your inherent potential."

"Why?"

That one word, spoken so quietly and without any trace of animosity, stopped Vader dead.

"Do you not wish to know who you are?" Vader was incredulous, genuinely confused.

This, surely, was what the boy wanted. Every truth that had been so deliberately kept from him, every fact. Having been confronted with a glimpse of reality after years of lies, how could he not want it all? But the boy shook his head in resigned refusal.

"I've lived this long without your 'truth'. I'll be dead soon anyway. What does it matter?" The boy was genuinely dismissive, anger waning now to be replaced with an empty bitterness, a knowing, weary acceptance that he would never know the real truth—not as long as those about him sought to control him.

"You should know who you are. Your heritage, your birthright."

Vader held his son's searching gaze as Luke turned to him, pale blue eyes so much like his own. Haunted and lost, deeply dispirited. So much like his own… Was this the price of power? Was this the true legacy of the Skywalkers—were they all cursed to a life of misery and grief?

"I really don't care," Luke whispered, his quiet, defeated tone more damning than any previous anger. "Please leave."

And that was it—against that resolute, determined denial, what more was there to be said? Vader turned to leave, but paused at the heavy door. Turning back, he dropped the small palm-held holo-projector he'd held to the ground at his feet. It clattered across the hard floor, rolling to a halt.

Neither looked at it.

"Your mother," Vader said simply, then turned and left without further comment.

 

 

Alone, Luke stared at the small device laid on its side on the floor. Seconds turned to minutes as he stared at it, until its dark color against the white walls had burned an imprint into his mind so that it remained even when he closed his eyes.

But the truth he'd craved his whole life had become too hard, too damning. Especially now, from this source. He didn't want any more—couldn't take any more. He was tired and battered, body and soul both.

 

 

From the main observation console in the ops room, Vader watched the image of the cell as Luke stared mutely at the device for a long, long time.

 _Willing_ him to pick it up…

Finally the boy leaned back his head, eyes closed. And Vader could sense the tangle of conflicting emotions which pulled him every direction at once. Loyalty to his friends, his cause. Fear that his hidden past would be a weakness, a method of control.

The desperate desire to see his mother's face, just once…

 

 

Luke willed himself to remain still for a long time, but every single fiber of his being was attuned to the small, abandoned holo-projector that lay on its side just ten paces away. It had been a cruel thing, to leave it here…a cunning thing.

He opened his eyes and stretched out his left hand, and the projector skittered momentarily over the bare floor then launched across the cell to land neatly in his palm. He held it for long seconds, struggling against inner demons—the longing, the need to know despite his words, the resentment and bitterness which had driven him to rebuff even this.

He gazed at the device in his hand, aware that he was being watched, but uncaring, the relevance of this moment too great to disregard.

His mother. His past. Twenty-one years of forsaken abandonment compressed into this instant. A lifetime of craving, of yearning, of searching for any connection, no matter how faint…

And now, finally, the truth was being offered…at a price. Acceptance.

Of what he was…of what he could become.

Sighing deeply, he held onto this possibility—the potential to see her—for just a few seconds more…

But the price was just too high.

He twisted it onto its side in his palm, so that the three fine veins which projected the image faced his thumb. Without visible emotion he broke each of them off, rendering the projector useless, then let it fall from his hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

**CHAPTER THREE **

 

 

 

Luke knew. Long before the heavy double-door to his cell opened, he knew.

Even though the cell was soundproof, he _knew_ the commotion going on in the corridor outside…

The inner door rasped open—

"…and your mother!" Han shouted, as he was practically thrown inside.

"Han!"

"Luke! Kid!" Han shouted his name as he turned toward him, blinking repeatedly as if trying to bring the world into focus. He set forward, arms open wide to embrace Luke as they met.

Luke winced, pulling in a sharp breath as Han pressed against the sutures in his back, but the moment was too precious to spoil. They pulled back, Luke studying Han. He looked tired and drawn, with a fresh cut over his left eye and a long open graze down his chin, already darkening into a bruise.

Still, Luke smiled. "You don't look so bad to me."

Han grinned. "Ah, you should see the other guy."

"Why, what does he look like?" Luke laughed.

"I have no idea—can't see a damn thing," Han replied glibly, though Luke could sense the subtle panic beneath his words.

"Can't see?"

"Well, I can see light and dark…vague shapes." He squinted at Luke, head on one side as if it would make a difference. "But you just look like a big thumb."

"You know, I have been told that before," Luke conceded lightly, nodding. Even in this, they joked…what else could they do?

"Where're the others?" Han pushed the conversation on and Luke followed his lead, rushing to reassure.

"They're okay. I think they're a couple of levels above us. Definitely way forward and on the other side of the ship."

"Why aren't they with you?"

Luke shrugged. "I'm guessing they know we wouldn't leave without each other. That means if by some miracle we get out of here, we still have to make our way through the length of a Star Destroyer before we can even think about getting off. Gives them plenty of time to get ready for us and organize any number of surprises."

"Wow, they're good," Han deadpanned.

"I think it's Vader."

"Yeah, we already met today—when they thawed me out. He grabbed me by the neck and told me if I gave him any trouble he'd turn my face inside-out. I'm guessing he's not a morning person." Han was leaning in to Luke now, eyes wide. "You know, you actually look like a thumb with two black eyes. I guess you've already given him trouble, huh?"

Luke looked away, uncomfortable. "I think we both scored a few hits."

Han paused, momentarily serious. "Listen, thanks for coming after us."

"For all the good it did."

Han remained stubbornly optimistic. "Yeah, but we're together now. We can start work on getting outta here. And we gotta get out and get to Chewie and the Princess before they get to us, or else I'll never hear the last of it from the Wook. Or Her Highness."

Luke could only smile in the face of such confidence. He hadn't realized how much he missed it. "Hey, who's the other guy with them? Dark, well-dressed…"

"Lando's here?" Han's hackles rose at that news. "He's the one who got us all into this. He handed us over to Vader."

Luke frowned. "Well he was shooting at Vader last time I saw him. And he's in a cell with the others now."

"Yeah, probably hittin' on Leia," Han growled.

"What happened?" Luke asked, realizing belatedly that he had no idea.

"Ah, we had to land on Bespin for repairs—Lando runs some tibanna gas mine there, and we needed a safe port. Took us weeks to limp there from Hoth and then Lando's all sweetness and light, saying absolutely he'll fix the _Falcon_ up, but we gotta wait 'till he can ship the parts in. We spend weeks an' weeks waiting—admittedly in the lap of luxury—with Lando always sayin' 'Oh, they'll be on the _next_ transport for sure.' Then her Highnessness starts gettin' all crampy and decides to contact Ackbar and ask for a pickup instead. Next thing we know, Vader appears, we're in the detention level, I'm strapped to an interrogation rack and they're firing up the carbon-freeze. Not my best day." A thought suddenly occurred, bringing Han's head up. "I thought he was after the Princess, but Lando said he was looking for you—we were just bait. What does he want you so bad for?"

Luke sighed, not wanting to get into this now. Instead he turned to walk back and settle gingerly against the pillar, making sure he kept his sutures clear of it. "I'll tell you later," he dismissed, hiding the avoidance behind another question. "What was wrong with the _Falcon_?"

"Hyperdrive. We didn't even make it to the rendezvous; stayed well and truly stuck in the Hoth System. Plus we had half the Imperial fleet on our tail…" The next he spok as if he was finally putting a puzzle to rest. "They must've thought we had you on-board!"

"A Destroyer took out the hyperdrive?"

"Nah, Hoth did that. We tried to hotwire it and managed to blow out the long-range comm system too. You know, there's not one damn thing about that planet I liked." Han flopped back onto a hard bunk.

Luke shrugged. "It kept the Empire off our backs."

"Yeah, that worked out great," Han deadpanned, looking about him meaningfully. "Where the hell are we anyway?"

"Vader's Super Star Destroyer, I think."

"Great. So that's twice as far to run to get to Chewie an' Leia," Han said dryly. "How long have you been here?"

"We're in a detention cell, in hyperspace. How would I know?"

"How many meals?" Han reasoned.

"Not nearly enough. Feels like one a day, which means I've been here three days. Two days elsewhere. But I was out cold before that, and I have no idea how long for."

"Out?" Han frowned.

"In a medi-center. They put me in here when I tried to go walkabout."

"Medi-center? What happened?"

Luke shrugged, not wanting to stay on this conversation any further. "Vader."

 

 

Han frowned, blinking rapidly as he stared at the blurred outline of the kid's hunched form, where he'd retreated to on the floor by a huge pillar which dominated the small cell. "You okay?"

"I'll live," Luke assured dismissively. But there was something else—something in his voice…

"Luke?"

He vaguely saw the kid raise his head, blurred and indistinct. Saw him hold his arm out in silence, and Han squinted at it, the white bandage against the white walls making it difficult to see just what…

The air left him in a rush of compassion as he shook his head and looked away, uncertain what to say.

"It doesn't hurt so much now." Luke said quietly.

"What the hell happened?"

"Vader," Luke repeated, voice strangely neutral as he said the name.

"Why?"

Luke shrugged. "I…got a blow in with my lightsaber."

Han was silent for long seconds. "You hit him…with a lightsaber?"

"Yeah."

Clearly the kid didn't want to give up any more information on this. Han considered for long seconds before finally nodding and saying quietly, "I'm impressed."

Strangely, the kid didn't reply; just looked away in silence.

Slowly, over the next few hours, interspersed by long, reticent lulls, Han coaxed what felt like the edited highlights out of Luke. The fight, the fall. The tractor beam, the medi-center. It all made sense, except on thing…why they were still alive at all—any of them. When he tried to push the kid on that one, he got stonewalled every time.

 

 

Luke lay on his back, staring at the curve of the ceiling…not that it was a ceiling, per say. The cell was a half-dome, ceiling and walls merging into a single concave curve…why? He didn't exactly make it a habit to visit Imperial detention cells, but curves on any starship were a waste of space. So why here?

Beside him, Han moved in his sleep on the hard bench that the cables about Luke's ankles meant that he couldn't even reach. He glanced over, worried for him, but still grateful for his company and the distraction it offered. He knew he'd eventually have to tell Han more; that Han knew he was keeping something back, but was allowing it with good grace, for now.

But he couldn't speak the truth—not yet. Some things were still too hard to say out loud, to even begin to consider. He looked down at the bandaged stub which had been his hand; some wounds kept on bleeding.

 

 

 

 

 

"I think my eyes are getting better," Han maintained from the unpadded bunk where he lay, waving his hand before eyes.

He'd been there two meals now, which definitely equated to two very long days, the way his stomach was growling.

Luke glanced up from where he generally sat on the floor, leaning back against the post in the centre of the cell. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Han glanced over, squinting. "… I want to say…three…?"

"I don't actually have my hand up," Luke said, deadpan.

"Oh, that's low," Han said dryly.

"You're not ready," Luke said easily, voice straining slightly as he shifted uncomfortably against the surgical scar he'd admitted he had on his back…maybe he wasn't ready either.

"Yeah, but if we go now…"

"If we go now, not only will I be dragging you along, whilst trying to fire a blaster one-handed and having to stop every time we hit steps to say, 'Down one…and another…', but when I finally give you a blaster because you've nagged me relentlessly about how much better you can see now, you'll probably shoot me in the back," Luke reasoned good-naturedly.

"Hey, there's nothin' wrong with my aim, junior."

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Luke repeated back.

"Man, you're worse than Chewie," Han grumbled.

Luke smiled tiredly. "We'll go when we get the chance. Whenever."

"That's all I wanted to hear," Han grinned.

Silence…

"And you aren't quite as bad as Chewie."

"Thanks."

"And you can fly better than him. But don't tell him that."

"Thanks."

"And you don't smell like a tauntaun when you're wet, which Chewie definitely does."

"Always nice to know."

"Except for that one time when I covered you in tauntaun innards."

"Yeah, thanks for that," Luke said, a smile sounding in his tired voice.

"Hey, you weren't complaining at the time, pal. I'm the one who had to spend the night in a very small snow-shelter with you."

"Revenge is sweet."

"Ah, it wasn't so bad. Try being stuck in a small freighter with a wet Wookiee."

Silence… The kid was awful quiet these days.

"See, I can see how many fingers I have up this close," Han said, waving his hand before him.

"I hope so, that's your own hand," Luke pointed out mildly.

"C'mon. I bet you five hundred credits I can tell you this time."

"You already owe me the _Falcon_ twice over." The kid sighed, but he still rose, leaning against the thick post for support.

"Care to double it?"

"Do you _have_ four _Falcons_?" Luke asked dryly.

"Hey, there's only one _Falcon_. And we're taking her with us when we leave."

Luke leaned closer to hold his hand out, always seeming to stand awkwardly to Han when he stepped from the center of the room, his bandaged arm still clutched to his chest.

"How many?" he invited.

"Two!"

"Congratulations. You can see."

" _Now_ can we leave?" Han asked impatiently, as if this had been the only obstruction.

"Absolutely. You open the door and we're out of here," Luke agreed, turning to head back to his spot.

"Are you…" Han leaned in, frowning, as Luke walked away. "Are you _tied_ to that post?"

"A little bit," Luke allowed dryly.

"And you didn't think to mention that earlier?" Han said, rising and stepping forward to grab clumsily for the fine organic steel cables and lift them into his still-limited range of focus.

"All things considered, I thought it was the least of our problems. Would you quit pulling that? I'm attached to the other end!" Luke yanked back with his ankle as he slid down the pillar to sitting again.

"Wow, they really want you to stay put, don't they?" Undeterred, Han crouched down before Luke to study the cable. "This is military high-grade. Pretty hefty stuff—three of these'd lift the Falcon."

 

 

Luke shifted uneasily as Han glanced up, that big-brother mix of concern and reproach in his tone, part patronizing, part kidding. He'd already used it to good effect to drag from Luke the fact that he'd had some kind of surgery on his spine. Luke would've kept quiet about it, but a medi-droid had been in to check the wound daily, and the fact that it had clearly been instructed not to say a word to either of them hadn't even slowed the run of questions that Han had launched.

Now he was tilting his head in that familiar way. "What'd you do?"

"Nothing."

"Really? Cos I can't help but notice that I remain cable-free and, if I say so myself, I did a hell of a lot to hack 'em off."

Luke sighed, realizing that he had absolutely no idea of how to break the news of his training to everybody, especially Han. Of everyone, he suspected that the cynical smuggler would take this the least well. But he'd better get used to explaining it—there were a lot of people who simply didn't believe that the Jedi ever existed; the Empire had put a lot of effort into reinventing them as fakers and opportunists obsessed with their own political power. Some bought into the lie, some didn't. Some never believed in the first place—which took Luke squarely back to Han, who remained crouched before him. Luke looked his friend in the eye, manner very serious.

"You know all that…Force stuff you don't believe in?" It wasn't his best opening line, he had to admit…

"Yeah, I know it," Han said slowly, realizing where this was going, "Please don't tell me you got it into your head that all that stuff Kenobi spouted is real."

"It is real."

"See, it's not…"

"Han…" Luke interrupted.

 

 

"No, listen—telling people it's real and wearing lightsabers is gonna make people do this to you." Han lifted the cable to illustrate his point. This was important. The kid did one step short of idolize that bantha-brained old hermit that he'd first come into Han's company with—to the point that he'd one admitted to Han that he'd heard Kenobi's voice over the Death Star. He'd had none of it when Han had said that in moments of high stress, pretty much everyone had some kind of weird experience. Didn't mean they were real.

At least the kid at least had the good grace to hunch down slightly in Han's still-blurred line of vision as he spoke, still trying to defend his corner. "Han…"

"Luke, Kenobi was just…" he hesitated to say it, knowing how the kid worshiped the old man, but this was important. "He was just some crazy…"

"Han, look down."

Han frowned, glancing down. "Ho! Hey! Whoa!"

He floated gently about a foot off the ground, neither boot touching the floor, still in a perfect crouch—he stretched forward quickly, hands out to catch himself…but didn't fall. "What the hell!?"

"If you struggle, it's very hard to keep you level," Luke said mildly.

"Seriously? … You're doing this!?… Seriously!" Han babbled, arms out stiffly as if to balance himself now. "How the hell are…"

"It's all real, Han," Luke said quietly.

"Get me the hell down, then!"

 

 

Luke lowered Han gently to the ground, releasing him slowly so he took his own weight back. Han crouched in silence for long seconds, glaring at Luke.

Finally, when Luke could stand it no more he opened his mouth to speak, to be met by Han's hand before his face, one finger held up to silence him. "Okay, supposing—just supposing—that I accept that it's real for the minute…" He raised his eyebrows meaningfully at the last. "Which I'm not sayin' that I do… Can you do anything else?"

Luke shrugged unassumingly. "I can speed up my reflexes, accelerate healing, increase my physical abilities, read intent, see…"

Han sat back to yank his boot off and drop it to the ground. "Lift that up."

"Han, I just lifted _you_ up. What…"

"I wanna see you do it on something else. Somethin' I name."

Sighing, Luke lifted the boot with the Force, turning it gently in the air at eye level. Even this small act felt good. He'd not maintained anything more than passive contact with the Force since arriving here, uncomfortable to do so this close to Vader, knowing that he would sense any contact.

Inexplicably, Han felt the need to check for forcefields, waving his hand over and about the boot. How exactly Han thought that Luke would be creating or manipulating them in an Imperial detention cell, Luke didn't know.

"It's not a trick," Luke said, giving his friend time to come to terms with this as Han tapped suspiciously at the boot.

It didn't take him too long, opportunist that he was.

"Can you open the door?"

"No. I could open a normal cell door—just blow it out—but this is different and I've been trying to figure out how. I've gone over the door repeatedly, but there's no mechanical lock at all, only an automated hinge mechanism to open the door when it's free-moving. I was looking at the structure of the roof, and I think there's a vacuum between the two doors—around this whole chamber. I think we're in a room within a room. That's why there are two doors with the outer one opening out and the inner one opening in; they're both held closed by a vacuum that exists between these two rooms. I'm pretty sure I could force the seal, but I think if I did it'd open the cell to a vacuum. I think it was made specifically to hold Jedi."

 

 

 _Hold Jedi…_ "That's why they want you, isn't it?" Han asked slowly, as it all came together.

Luke nodded slowly.

"That's why Vader was sent after you."

"Vader has his own reasons," Luke said cryptically, making Han frown at the kid.

He was different somehow; had been since Han had arrived here. Han had put it down to their less-than-favorable circumstances, but now…

Han looked closer—he seemed older…more prepossessed.

"Where were you," Han asked slowly. "When we were limping all the way to Bespin then stuck on Cloud City for weeks on end…where were you, Luke?"

Luke glanced down…and was actually about to speak when his face changed quite suddenly, a wary mask falling as he looked aside. "Vader," he whispered.

Han frowned, glancing at the blank wall where the kid was looking, confused. "What?"

A distant, muffled hiss of displaced air was followed by the grind of the heavy outer door opening. Han pushed up and back as Luke rose beside him, just as the inner door grated open and Vader stalked in, striding up to Luke without even glancing at Han, stormtroopers crowding in at the door.

"What were you doing?" Vader growled without preamble.

The kid was incredibly guarded now, but strangely unafraid. More than that even; antagonistic. Han could see it quite clearly.

"Why?" Luke challenged.

Even his voice was different; had an uncharacteristic edge to it.

Vader took one step closer, hand held out, finger up in warning. "Don't play games with me. What were you doing?"

Still Luke wouldn't back down. Han glanced at the troopers by the now-closed door. Was the kid suicidal!

"Why don't you check your security footage? Or ask your troopers in the ops room. That's their job, isn't it, to watch us?"

Han glanced up, squinting about the cell for a security lens, though he could see nothing.

"I am asking _you_ ," Vader snapped, denying none of Luke's accusations.

Luke remained silent, the air fairly buzzing between them. Han had never seen the kid like this before—he was almost unrecognizable.

"Check the wires," Vader ordered.

Two troopers rushed forward to comply, inspecting the cables which bound Luke to the wide central pillar.

"They're good, Lord Vader. No marks," came the filtered reply.

"The door," Vader said, without looking away.

The troopers pushed past Han, hustling him aside. "Hey, watch it!"

"Clean, Sir."

Vader lifted his head to study the post which Luke was tied to, then scanned the room slowly before turning back to a still-silent Luke, who fairly seethed animosity, eyes hooded, stance taut.

"If you do anything, anything at all, _he_ will suffer," Vader growled, pointing to Han. "As will the others. They are all expendable. Remember that."

He turned, his cloak swirling about him, and was almost to the door before Luke spoke, voice tight and low. "I will."

There was something in it…something that spoke far more of a threat than of compliance.

Han tensed, turning to Vader, who paused, twisting slowly back to stare at Luke for long moments. Han felt his own muscles tighten, sure Vader would lunge at Luke, sure the kid would throw himself at Vader if he did, uncertain what to do; whether to grab for the kid to restrain him or launch forward to try to help him.

Then Vader simply turned and stalked out, the door slamming home behind the troopers who followed him, the hiss of the hermetic seal engaging the only sound for long seconds.

"Man, you sure know how to pick your enemies," Han wheezed, letting the words out in a long gasp.

Luke relaxed only slowly, muscles gradually loosing, breathing softening. Still, he stared for a long time at the doorway, an intensity about him which Han had never seen before, a wildness in his eyes.

He eventually sat, hunched in silence for a long time, lost in his thoughts, Han not daring to ask what the hell had just happened.

 

 

 

 

 

No one entered the cell for the next three days. Food came sporadically through a narrow hatch which opened in the wall, Luke always knowing a minute or so before, standing to gaze at the wall as if it were a window. Announcing the arrival of new guards or the changing of the existing ones; any breaks in the routine.

Han didn't ask the kid how he knew this stuff, but he was beginning to accept that he just might, no matter how uneasy it made him feel. Luke was always right about when the food arrived—to the minute.

They'd studied the walls for a long time too, trying to gauge how big the chamber was that their cell was set inside, based on brief glances at the depth of the food hatch; how much of a space the vacuum filled—whether their lungs could take the decompression if Luke forced the door. Han had been willing to give it a try, but the kid had reasonably pointed out that if they'd gone to this much trouble, they would have calculated the size of outer chamber needed to at the very least render its occupants unconscious. Han had to admit it would have been a pretty glaring oversight not to, given the amount of work which had gone into this. Though based on the Death Star design, he was still almost willing to give it a go.

A fair amount of their ample time was also put into trying to judge how long before they arrived at ImperialCenter. After some heated debate as to how many days it took to travel from Bespin to Coruscant down the Corellian Trade Spine, Luke had won the argument by default when he pointed out the fact that both of them had been unconscious for the start of the journey, which meant that they had no idea how long they had been traveling in the first place—something of a hindrance in working out how far they still had to go. And that was assuming they'd made no stops—and that they were traveling at a constant point-five beyond lightspeed, both of which were pretty major assumptions.

Too many variables and not enough information, and time was ticking down.

 

 

 

The sound of the pressure cycling which always marked the opening of the outer door dragged Han awake. He felt groggy, like it was the middle of the night, though they never lowered the lights in here. But he'd had to wake quickly too many times over too many years for it to bother him now, so by the time the inner door grated back he was wide awake and scrabbling upright.

Stormtroopers poured in, too many to count.

Han realized peripherally that Luke had already been awake, standing up before the thick pillar he was tethered to, though he hadn't woken Han. It crossed his mind in that moment to wonder why, but the troopers were jostling Han back now, a blaster in his face.

"Hey, easy pal," Han said, adrenaline pumping.

For a few seconds, there remained a tense standoff as several troopers lined up a way back from the kid, blasters trained on him as Luke held them in a level gaze. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and emotionless.

"Do it," he said simply.

Han frowned uneasily...

The three troopers directly in front of the kid fired, the suddenness of the action making Han cry out as the combined shots threw the kid back to glance off the pillar and hit the ground like dead-weight.

 _"Luke!"_ Han was dragged back roughly by many hands. A blaster jabbed into his stomach, winding him, and when he looked up, it was to stare down the barrel.

"This one's _not_ set on stun," the trooper said pointedly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

** CHAPTER FOUR **

 

 

 

"Leia? Leia!" Han shouted out as he was hustled down the ramp of the transport, on seeing Leia being dragged from a second shuttle onto the wide, troop-lined platform, lit up in the dark of the planet's night.

"Han!" She struggled pointlessly against her guards, but that didn't stop her trying. "Let me go! You stupid…"

Her voice was drowned out by Chewie's deafening howl as he saw Han from the ramp.

"Chewie!" Han yelled, elated now. "Hey, ya big…"

The stormtrooper beside him pushed his blaster into Han's ribs. "Shut your mouth, pirate, or I'll shut it for you."

Han didn't care—he didn't care in that moment. They were alive, they were okay. Talk about a roller-coaster day!

They were dragged up alongside him to stand in the center of an impressive group of troopers, all of whom they completely ignored in their relief to see that each of the others were okay. Lando joined them, hands bound, and though he couldn't bring himself to acknowledge the man, in that moment, Han didn't even care that he was there.

"Were you on-board too?" Leia asked, beaming from ear to ear, hardly at her most regal but sure as hell stunning to Han. "For how long?"

"You know me, sweetheart, just can't keep away from a pretty face," he grinned, bobbing his eyebrows.

Leia rolled her eyes as Chewie chuntered his concern. Han brushed it off easily. "Best night's sleep I ever had!"

The stormtrooper in charge of the prisoners turned on them. "If you don't _all_ shut up…"

He never finished his threat. A far greater one than he could ever issue stalked down the ramp of the transport, black cloak swirling about him in the night winds as the impressive phalanxes of troops came smartly to attention.

In the silence, Han glanced around, orienting himself.

They were on a huge landing platform high on the roof of a massive, monolithic building, open to the elements and surrounded by four towering spires which continued up in perfect proportion from the monumental mass off the main structure below, the night illuminated by thousands of lights from the city about it, their reflected glow great enough to obscure the stars entirely. Not that Han needed them to recognize Coruscant—and it would always be Coruscant to him, no matter how many times the Imperials claimed and renamed it.

And he knew the Towers too, had seen them hundreds of times from a distance. A safe distance. Never once expected to see them up close…then again, who did?

The legendary magnificence of the Imperial Palace was laid out about them, in the scale of the landing platform and the troops assembled; in the polished and banded granite slab beneath their feet, delicately inlaid with finely scrolled metals whose design radiated out in a complex pattern hidden by the polished boots of many stormtroopers, in the height of the towers which soared above every other structure even here, immersing the viewer in its casual opulence, a tremendous statement of Imperial wealth and resources on a planet where overt displays of outrageous luxury were the norm.

As vast as it was, the platform was only a fraction of the roof space of the monumental main Palace. The four lofty HabitationTowers which rose up about them from the corners of the building below were each surrounded by private gardens lit up in the night, where full-height trees swayed in the wind, dwarfed by the imposing bulk of the towers themselves. Their intricately-carved stonework, floor upon floor, was thrown into sharp relief by bright lights aimed from the lush gardens at the bases of the towers, the lamps hissing and steaming as drizzle landed on the magnified heat of their huge refracting lenses.

Vader strode forward across the landing platform without pause, completely at ease surrounded by this display of Imperial might, a group of somber-faced officers trailing behind him.

Halfway across the platform he paused as rows of scarlet-clad Royal Guard—the Emperor's own regiment—marched out to break the of the rows of white stormtroopers with a double line of blood red.

"The Emperor," Leia murmured, drawing back slightly as Han craned his neck to see.

Darth Vader walked several paces forward from the Imperial Commanders and dropped to one knee, head low, disappearing below rows of attention-still troopers.

Anticipation made Han's heart beat faster; he was about to see the Emperor… _the Emperor!_ Nobody saw Emperor Palpatine, not in the flesh. Admittedly he probably wasn't going to live to tell anyone, and even if he did who would believe him, but still…

An expectant stillness fell about the scene, its imposing gravity lost on no one, even Solo.

The man who walked slowly out from the high double doors of the south tower, a heavy, hooded cloak hiding his form, seemed at once small and frail, yet absolutely in command; aware of his status and expecting recognition of such.

A small entourage followed at a respectful distance, four elderly men in dark, rich vermillion robes, a striking, porcelain-skinned red-haired woman in a black one-piece—clearly military from the way she held herself—and two Royal Guards.

Oddly, above the wind and despite the distance, Han thought he could hear the _'click – click'_ of the gnarled black cane the Emperor used to walk with as he stepped forward. More so, he felt, for the first time in many years, reduced to unsettled silence by the hooded man's disquieting presence…

 

 

Walking across the windswept platform, Emperor Palpatine forced himself to slow his pace, but when he finally reached Lord Vader he was unable to keep the fervent anticipation from his voice. "Rise—rise, my friend. Your mission was successful."

It was not a question.

"Yes, my Master."

Palpatine could sense some sliver of reluctance, a carefully concealed unease, and it brought a slow, subtle smile to his thin, cracked lips. Not that Vader felt this, but that he felt it yet did nothing about it. Control on any level was rewarding…control of someone of Vader's abilities was endlessly gratifying.

"Good. Very good. You've done well," Palpatine rewarded easily, eyes turning to the transport.

An open medical repulsor-sled was being guided down the ramp, its occupant unconscious, hooked up to the inbuilt specialist IV system which was capable of keeping him that way.

Palpatine waited, eyes locked on the sled. As it approached he sensed something, some blast of intense concern, and glanced momentarily at the spot several rows back into the stormtroopers.

"His companions," Vader said simply, clearly having sensed the same.

Palpatine frowned; there was something—some distant familiarity…

"Leia Organa," he said, remembering the woman from her infrequent attendance to Court; her father was always so protective.

As well he should be, traitor that she was. She held his attention for only a moment though, his ochre eyes turning back greedily to the sled. He'd once thought to bring her before him in chains, to answer for her crimes. Now she was almost beneath his notice, useful for one thing only. But very useful in that, he hoped. Yes, he had plans for his little Rebel Princess.

He smiled wickedly, eyes remaining locked on the greater prize. He had waited a long time for this moment once he realized Skywalker's existence. Prepared for it, anticipated and carefully schemed, plans within plans, waiting to be set in motion. It had been a long time coming, but then so had most momentous things in his life. As with all of them, he was a patient man. And as with all of them, he knew that this too would come, despite the best efforts of the Jedi.

He took three fast steps forward as the sled neared, in that moment completely forgetting his cane. Halting it, he leaned over the unconscious man who had been the bane of his life for so long, omen of the Jedi's precious prophesy hanging like chains about his neck. The only real threat to his reign.

He stared for long, still seconds, head to one side, yellow eyes taking in the boy's features as his closed eyelids flickered, perhaps at some distant realization.

"He's barely grown, little more than a padawan." Palpatine's tone was mocking, scornful in its amusement as he glanced up to Vader. "How did he elude you for so long?"

He reached out, ashen skin pale against the boy's dark bruises, almost but not quite touching the boy's temple; noting him flinch more violently away. "But what a power…" Palpatine turned sulphurous, taunting eyes to Vader, sharp voice reduced to a private, goading whisper. "Everything you once were."

Vader remained silent; impassive. He likely knew his Master would seek to drive a wedge between himself and his son as soon as possible. And he knew why.

Palpatine turned away, amused by Vader's willful silence, knowing that his servant would try to use the boy against him—probably already had. But Vader had always been too impatient, too impetuous, far too abrupt to achieve anything in as delicate a situation as this. Except to serve Palpatine's ends of course, as he always did, whether he intended to or not.

As his son would. He studied the boy again, more closely now…and paused, grating voice lowered in displeasure. "You have damaged my Jedi, Lord Vader."

Vader's chin lifted slightly. "He was…difficult to contain."

"He is a Jedi." Palpatine's tone was dismissive.

"He is more than that," Vader maintained, careful to keep any challenge from his voice. Any pride.

Palpatine held his eye for several long seconds then turned away, disgusted. "Take him to his quarters," he said at last, glancing to his companions. "And take them to the detention level—if you're capable of that."

He turned and walked away, not bothering to acknowledge Vader's deep bow.

 

 

 

 

 

Palpatine walked impatiently into the room where his new Jedi had been ensconced, the fiery, red-haired Mara Jade two steps behind him, her displeasure at being twisted up in her master's new 'project' blaring out through the Force. Which was of course exactly why he had brought her. Her job was to do his bidding; what she wanted or preferred was immaterial. It always had been.

He had intended not to return to it today, instead to leave it in uneasy solitude whilst he enjoyed the satisfaction of ownership at last—in body if not yet in spirit. But the pull to come here had been just too great, so he had made his way down here on the pretext of checking the unprepared-for medical arrangements, knowing that in truth he had wanted nothing more than to be here, watching it. Like a child with a new toy that he was not yet allowed to touch.

The comparison brought a smile to pale, thin lips at the realization. He had not felt this way in a long time.

His Jedi's heavily-fortified quarters were spread over several rooms within an immense, elegantly proportioned apartment. Tall, ornately-carved wooden panels concealed massively-reinforced blast doors and the dark, macassar-polished walls hid trussed, perennium-strung plasteel slab, with brace-strung military-grade filament set within the solid, refraction-free bulk of explosion-rated windows. A prison to hold a Jedi.

Beautifully dressed and luxuriously appointed, but a prison nonetheless. Doubtless his Jedi would see it as such, too. But there was a game being played here, subliminal messages being communicated; that open defiance was unnecessary in such a context; every effort was being made to make this a civilized encounter.

How long it remained that way was up to his new Jedi.

At the end of three large rooms, the bedroom already looked like a full-facility medi-center, groaning with scanners and support equipment. No one would take any chances here, the risks for failure were just too high. Palpatine had gone to great lengths to make that very clear—as had Lord Vader, from what he understood.

The Jedi's unconscious form lay on the high bed, wires and inputs connected up to medical displays, the several human medics crowded about them all turning and bowing reverentially as the Emperor entered. There were no sentient droids here; unreadable in the Force, Palpatine did not trust them, never allowing them beyond the main Palace and into the HabitationTowers.

"Leave," he ordered the medics as he walked forward.

Accustomed to their Emperor's curtness, they filed out in silence. The last to leave was noticeably younger and sported a fleet uniform, with dark hair and olive skin.

"You are Hallin," Palpatine said simply, having made a point to remember his name.

The man stammered to a halt, bowing uncertainly. "Yes, Your Excellency."

Palpatine nodded slightly, never taking his eyes from the man. "Lord Vader has told me that you are an exemplary medic."

"He is very kind, Excellency," Hallin said, at a loss for other words.

The Emperor smiled at that. "No, he is not. He is, however, trustworthy." At this, Palpatine leaned forward just slightly, pressing his message home. "It is that which I value more than anything else."

The slight young medic nodded his understanding, though he was unable to resist backstepping before the Emperor; always a pleasing reaction.

"Of course, Excellency."

Palpatine held silent for long seconds, eyes burrowing into the nervous man, judging him...

Having, as ever, more in play here than the obvious, he glanced back to Jade, who had remained at the door. Stepping in closer to the medic before he spoke, he kept his voice low, consciously dampened in the massive, echoing room. "You have done well thus far—you are to be rewarded. Skywalker is…of great value to me. I appoint you as Chief Physician to Lord Vader's son; his retinue must, after all, be reinstated after his prolonged absence. You will be assigned quarters in the Palace, for living and for working. You will be assigned an aide, but may choose your own staff."

This time the medic did not retreat, elated at the distinction bestowed on him, finally managing, "Th-Thank-you, Excellency."

The Emperor narrowed his eyes slightly as he stepped back. "You understand the heavy responsibilities of your post? I do this because I have great faith in you."

"I…shall endeavor not to disappoint, Excellency."

"Do so," Palpatine grated in dismissal. "As if your life depended on it."

The medic bowed low as Palpatine turned away, pleased. He had, of course, already studied the man's file closely before making this decision, though the fact that Lord Vader had trusted him enough to assign him first to his own staff and then to treat his son had held greater weight.

For the Emperor to hand out the honor of such a post was one thing; to do so in such a way as to be in itself of use was another. Personal recognition and a few gracious words on the part of the monarch could create a loyal servant for life. Especially when offset with a subtle threat to clarify. Which was what Palpatine needed around his new Jedi; loyal vassals…loyal to Palpatine, and unshakably so. The boy would test them all, sooner or later.

Consideration of this fact brought Palpatine's eyes back to Mara, remaining where she was by the door as the medic had left, her flash of russet hair bright against the muted tones of the room.

"Not you, child," Palpatine ordered as she too turned to leave.

A slight tightening of her jaw was her only visible sign of frustration, though she obeyed without question—she always had.

Palpatine walked up the step to the raised level on which the bed stood, dark, its rich covers making the boy's grazed and bruised skin appear pale. It had indeed taken a great deal for Vader to subdue his son. He tilted his head to look at the boy as Mara drew near.

"He looks not at all like his mother, only his father," he said at last, considering this a good thing, knowing she would not understand.

She didn't know who he was, of course, only that he was a Jedi. As much as Palpatine trusted his favored assassin, he was not in the habit of handing out significant information. Only what was necessary to her job, which this was not—not yet. Knowledge was power, and Palpatine never gave power unnecessarily. Particularly when it could hamper. The timing of this particular nugget of information was most sensitive; he needed her to reach certain conclusions without it. Too soon would color her opinion of him, and all of their subsequent interactions.

 

 

Mara Jade remained silent as she glanced with vague disinterest at the unconscious man, unsure of why he was here anyway and not in the detention levels with his companions.

She knew of course that he was a Jedi; had noted her master's obsessive attention to planning every detail of his confinement, as well as his growing excitement at the Jedi's impending arrival. And she well remembered the maltreatment of other such treacherous, dangerous individuals in the past. Dangerous…though not to her master, of course.

They lasted a day, sometimes two or three, until her master grew bored of tormenting them. Then he would turn Vader on them. For practice, he claimed—for sport, she often suspected. Though it was hardly a fair fight.

She had seen the Emperor bring down Jedi himself several times under the same justification, with or without the aid of a lightsaber. Had been taught by her master how to do the same, though she had nothing approaching his abilities in the Force. But certain things could be learned, and in the beginning there had never been a shortage to hone her skills on, though in recent years Lord Vader's applied zeal had finally begun to show as they became fewer and farther between, none in the last several years. In a strange sort of way, she missed it.

The concept of guilt was long since lost on her—it did not serve her master's needs.

Which did nothing to explain the Emperor's treatment of this particular enemy. Presumably the Jedi had something he needed—or perhaps he was part of some greater game. She glanced at her master who remained lost in thought, fascinated by the unconscious man, all his attentions focused there. What was he scheming…what did he want with him?

 

 

Aware of her intense curiosity, Palpatine glanced momentarily up to her and she lowered her eyes, turning away deferentially. That battle was long since won. Satisfied, he turned again to his new acquisition. It had been the threat which hung over all that he had accomplished, the Jedi Order's last great caveat; fulfillment of their precious prophesy and destruction of his own:

The Son of Suns.

They had thought it Lord Vader, but with a wonderful, twisted irony, Palpatine had proved to them how very wrong they were…so they had apparently hung their hopes for retribution on his son.

How they'd lied to hold sway over it. How they'd manipulated. How they'd bent and warped their precious Jedi ethics to suit their needs in the name of necessity...and what power they'd handed to Palpatine in doing so. Because now—now that he finally had this threat restrained and contained, now that he finally had the opportunity—he found he could not destroy it.

He knew he should; he should kill it now. Knew that absolutely, having come face to face with it, at last.

But he couldn't quite bring himself to do so, not without making some effort to possess it. As with Lord Vader, the temptation of controlling this much power was just too great. And in truth, wasn't this what Palpatine had always intended? To own this power? Whether in the hands of Vader or his son was immaterial. What mattered was that he possessed it. This—this boy hardly yet full-grown, their precious 'Son of Suns'—could just as effortlessly fulfill the Sith prophesies of dominion as he could the Jedi's claims of true balance…just as his father had.

All of Palpatine's far-reaching plans…this embodied in this half-grown child was the missing link without which all else fell to dust. The opportunity which Kenobi had so long since denied Palpatine when he had is dueled with Anakin was now possible again…by Kenobi's hand. How wonderfully ironic. It made possession that much sweeter.

But how to possess? How to make it yield to a new Master?

Had he held it ten years earlier, as he had its father, there would have been no question as to its loyalties. But that opportunity was gone, stolen away by the Jedi, bane of all his careful plans. So how to go about twisting this mind to his own ends, now? That he didn't know yet; that would take time—to learn, to exploit. To create the chains with which he would bind it.

It wouldn't be awed by his abilities or his position, and careful study of his spies' reports over the last three years suggested that the more pressure he brought to bear, the more the willful little creature would push back. If he needed further proof of that, then Lord Vader's encounter at CloudCity was a prime example.

He could offer it power—more power even than its father now held—was that a possible incitement? Position, perhaps; recognition…unequalled status? Assets and wealth? Though if it wanted any of those, it could have taken them in abundance long before now.

And pain alone wouldn't sway it; if that were the case, then Vader would have already triumphed. It was, after all, his forte. No, the boy wouldn't submit under duress of pain. Outrage would only feed his resolve.

Because Vader had tried, presumably, though he hadn't admitted to such. Palpatine wasn't blind to his ambition, though he knew it was not a true threat—not without this boy. Vader's weakness had always been his lust for power: the power to excel, to rise beyond his humble origins, to change events to suit his own desires. It blinded him to all other considerations. But he lacked the resolve to carry those ambitions through with Palpatine, the chains which bound him too old and too deep-set. That was why he needed the boy; to accomplish what he knew he could not, mentally as well as physically.

Still, Lord Vader would surely have offered more than Palpatine ever could at Bespin, and it hadn't abandoned its principles or its companions. Perhaps that was his son's weakness; a Jedi's compassion; it cared too much. Always a terrible, hobbling flaw. Compassion had long been the weak underbelly of the Jedi…had it realized this?

Probably not; its every act had illustrated its loyalty to its cause, its need to protect that with which it felt empathy. Its Rebellion, its comrades, even the Jedi tenets which had so bound and constricted it. Yes; compassion had made it trust, and trust had dragged it down to weakness.

Once he clarified the extent of Kenobi's deceptions—the depths he'd stooped to, the devious, hypocritical cruelty he'd committed in the name of his precious Jedi Order—would it turn away? Surely. Surely the boy would abandon any thought of allegiance. In its position, Palpatine would aid Kenobi's enemies out of spite; just revenge on those who had so callously sought to use him.

And Palpatine would take that. It wasn't loyalty, but it was a start, a fracture point, a means in. He took one step closer, drawn in by this locus of power. Trained power—the boy was accomplished to some degree; not what he had expected. Vader had first encountered the boy three years ago above both Alderaan and Yavin, and had claimed that Obi-Wan had only begun his training, but this was not the awkward, unpolished potential he had anticipated. This was, to all intents and purposes, a Jedi.

He smiled a thin, gratified smile which did nothing to soften that sulphurous gaze; it had been so long since he had sensed another Jedi. Far, far longer since he had sensed an adept of this power. He cackled knowingly at that; the boy's lifetime, in fact.

An even longer stretch since he'd had the opportunity to truly challenge his own abilities in this way; those without knowledge of the Force were so easy to manipulate and mold, broadcasting their every emotion but sensing nothing, floundering in the dark. But this…this would be a meeting of minds. A Jedi would read his intent as clearly as he read theirs.

With his father, Palpatine had held the luxury of time, investing years of subtle manipulation in the boy from early childhood. Forming a connection, a dependence, an unbreakable bond. Now he had no such convenience; Vader's son was practically grown, with his own beliefs no matter how shaken, and his own will. He would never trust as his father had.

But trust wasn't necessary. Only obedience.

The unanticipated fact that he was trained was a curiosity, but of no lasting importance. He had turned Jedi before. Count Dooku had been so willful, so defiant in the face of Darkness… But everyone had a weakness. Once isolated—once the flaw was found and compounded—that iron resolve had crumbled so wonderfully.

Like Dooku, Skywalker would of course know what Palpatine was doing; that was always the challenge with Jedi. Which was why it had been so advantageous to loose Vader on it. He had needed to so brutally dissect its life before he brought it before him, and to provide Skywalker with someone to rail against of course. An enemy to concentrate that willful obstinacy on, whilst safely removing it from himself so that he remained always the principal authority, all his Jedi's attention and energies and anger carefully directed elsewhere.

A challenge was all well and good, but Palpatine had never believed in starting from a level playing field; it was not in his nature.

He again became aware of Jade's eyes on him and let his face settle into a neutral expression as he pulled his thoughts to more immediate concerns.

"Tell them to repair this," he said to her of the medics, indicating the bandaged remains of his Jedi's arm.

"Tonight?" Mara asked.

"Of course tonight," Palpatine said, the snap in his tone indicating his annoyance that she need ask.

"The hand, is it…temporary?"

He knew what she was really asking, and why. So he smiled at her discreetness, rewarding her with a direct answer. "No, my dear, it is permanent, like my guest. Have them fit the very best. Nothing less will do for my new Jedi."

He looked again at the still-frail creature, resisting the urge to shake it awake. No doubt it would make its presence known from the moment it was.

"Mara; put a detachment of my Royal Guards outside its door with the Palace Guards; it's more powerful than I thought. There are to be no mistakes."

"Yes, Master," she acknowledged. "But the lock's not breachable. The room is a prison; he won't…"

He only needed to turn slightly towards her, not even bother to catch her eye. She was instantly silent.

"You will stay here at the Palace for the foreseeable future," he continued, as if she had not spoken. "You are now responsible for its imprisonment until I'm satisfied that it will stay where I put it."

It was a gamble, to place Mara in charge when only Vader could really control the boy, but she was capable and loyal, and whilst Vader's involvement was very much a part of his greater plan, Palpatine had no desire to have him anywhere near the Jedi until he himself had a far greater understanding of the situation. And Mara Jade had her part to play, eventually…

 

 

Mara scowled, emerald-green eyes narrowing in distaste as she glanced again to the unconscious man. She didn't like babysitting jobs, they were beneath her. Especially ones with no future, which this Jedi surely was, no matter what her master claimed right now.

"Not this one," Palpatine said with a smile, more alive than Mara remembered seeing him in many years. "This one will carry my Empire forward. He will be all that his father should have been."

She frowned at this, her eyes rising to her master.

"Do you not sense it?" His tone was, as ever, half challenge and half disappointment.

"I know he's a Jedi," she said.

He laughed, amused at her dismissive air. "No, child; he's more than that. All things bow to the power of the Force."

She waited, intensely curious now, knowing he would sense this, and tell her what he saw fit.

"His line is to the Jedi as you are to an ape, my dear. They are the next evolutionary leap, compelled into being by direct intervention of the Force, connection beyond all that the Jedi envisioned. I'm surprised Kenobi taught him…he must have been truly desperate."

Mara glanced at the slight man, bruised and bloody, reassessing her view of him in respect of her masters, eyes narrowing in consideration.

 

 

Palpatine smiled at her ready acceptance, eager anticipation tingeing his words with dark intent. "I have a formidable task before me, I feel."

He had forgotten the thrill of facing a worthy adversary; a genuine, unpredictable threat. The command of his Empire paled by comparison. Unable to resist, he reached out intending to rest trembling fingers against the boy's temples, the action bringing a stray memory unbidden to his mind—of the boy's father; of finding him burned and mutilated on Mustafar.

He had reached out then to check that his new apprentice would live, in more ways than one. If Anakin's connection to the Force had been too badly diminished by his injuries…well then, what use would he have been to Palpatine? He would have simply walked away; left the boy to burn. He had clearly failed to defeat the Jedi who had gone after him; if his connection to the Force had also been substantially severed, as was oftentimes the case in such extreme injuries, then his usefulness would have been at an end.

But it had not been the case. Much had been lost, but Anakin's connection had always been intense, so that he still held more power than any Jedi. And now he had a reason to hate. Now Anakin and Palpatine's aims were the same, though for different reasons; the destruction of the Jedi. Kenobi's act had bound Anakin to him more finally than anything Palpatine could have done. His inability to finish what he had begun, whether from the compassionate weakness of a friend or some instant of vindictive hatred fuelled by betrayal, had given Palpatine the greatest tool he had ever possessed. And he had used it without compunction.

And now, incredibly, Kenobi's actions had brought an even greater instrument to Palpatine's attention. A line he had thought irrevocably broken was reinstated, an opportunity long-lost suddenly within his grasp again.

Palpatine hesitated, a new consideration presenting itself; did Vader know? Did he see his successor in his son?

Did he realize that in his need to reclaim that which he saw as his, Vader had created the potential for Palpatine to reach it; the weakness which would enable him to breach the boy's resolute defenses? Did he recognize that Palpatine would sacrifice Vader to gain Skywalker just as willingly as he had once sacrificed Dooku to gain Vader?

If so, then he said nothing, obedient to the end. Would his son be as tractable, as malleable?

Hand resting on the boy's forehead, Palpatine reached out with the Force to touch this locus of power—

and was thrown back, mentally and physically, as if touching a live wire, the unconscious boy wrenching away from him.

Mara moved quickly round to her Emperor, though he had not lose his footing entirely, so gestured her away, grinning as he stepped back, resting his hand again on his Jedi's forehead, this time leaning all of his mental abilities into subduing the youth.

Eyelids flickering, it resisted momentarily, but in its drugged state this was no cognitive defense, only subconscious instinct—opposing aspects of the Force too dissimilar to maintain contact, like oil on water—and under Palpatine's concerted effort, this was subdued and the boy slowed and stilled again.

But how wonderful that it would fight him even now, without hope of victory, like a reflex action. Would it struggle when he came to break it? Would it rail against him? Did it understand how pointless that would be?

Did it know that it would lose that battle too?

Had they told it that the more it fought, the closer to the Darkness it would edge, because it could only fight fire with fire, and the fire that gave heat would also burn?

When the boy finally settled slack, Palpatine released his hold, long fingers trailing across the grazed skin of its cheek.

Would he yet have to kill it?

What a waste… If he did, he would ensure that it had a worthy death. A blaze of glory—a fitting end for the last Jedi.

The slightest touch of a smile lifted the corners of his lips at the realization; remembrance of earlier musings. Because something could be salvaged, even then.

 

 

 

 

 

The door to the detention cell slid open and Leia scrabbled upright in reaction, face already composed into a meaty scowl for whoever entered.

Two Imperial officers did so, completely unimpressed. "Up. You're to come with us," the older man said, already turning away again.

"Where are the people I arrived with?" Leia said, remaining where she was.

"I have no idea—I wasn't sent for them," he said, cold, disinterested expression changing not a whit.

"I'm not going anywhere until I know where they are." She kept her voice firm, resolute in this; if they wanted her to move, they were going to have to carry her. And just _let_ them get close enough to try that…

The officer sighed, glanced momentarily at his companion. "The Commander said you'd be awkward. He said you'd change your tune if we were to tell you where you were going."

Leia arched perfect eyebrows in doubting query.

"The injured man who arrived on the shuttle…that's who you're being taken to."

Injured?…did they mean…

"Luke?" Leia stood, anxious hope replacing stubbornness. "Where is he?"

"In his apartments. I'm ordered to take you there."

In the anticipation of the moment the oddness of that passed by unnoticed, and Leia setting forward, willing to comply for the opportunity to see Luke.

Stormtroopers and guards eyed her with cold disinterest as she exited from the turbolift to be walked the short distance to a second checkpoint between the Detention Centre and Palace above, permissions closely checked and confirmed before they were nodded onwards.

Then she was up in the Palace, four stormtroopers accompanying the two officers as they walked along empty walkways obviously restricted to military personnel but open to one of the cavernous internal spaces of the main Palace, everything there exactly as she remembered from her infrequent visits with her father. Level upon level of military bureaucracy bustled with its own overblown sense of importance, blind to the anguish it caused to the daily lives of ordinary people—or worse, uncaring, aware that they were imbued with the power to overwhelm any resistance, great or small.

She had always hated it here, in this house of mirrors and manipulations. Long before she'd known anything of the resistance or Palpatine or her father's covert political views, she had _always_ hated it here.

She passed through all this self-serving wealth and outrageous opulence without a sideways glance, feeling gratefully out of place.

They traveled for a long time before they reached the apex level of the MainPalace, which housed the vast six story high hall with its grand marble and wrought-metal staircases which swept graciously, curve upon curve, to the heavily-guarded bottleneck of the Tower entry. The cavernous space of the high, pillared and vaulted Crossways linked the more public parts of the palace to the elite Habitation Towers above, the change marked not just in scale and opulence, but more subtly in the numerous guards, who changed at this point from the white of general stormtroopers to the royal blue of Palace livery, then finally, in Court itself, to the deep scarlet of the Royal Guard.

They were now further into the HabitationTowers than Leia had ever been, traveling through restricted levels where security checks were more and more frequent. Despite her unease, she hadn't failed to note that permission for her entry to the Towers had been given by a Level Two security clearance; that meant a high-ranking member of the Emperor's personal entourage. As they continued to walk, she was running through the list in her head—it was barely more than a dozen—and beginning to doubt very much that she was really being taken to see Luke at all, judging from the luxurious surroundings.

They finally stopped outside the grand double-doors of a huge private apartment high in the… WestTower, she thought, trying to maintain her sense of direction.

It was lavish and impressively sumptuous, the magnificent marble-lined hallway within practically big enough to fly Han's precious _Falcon_ down without a scratch. Incredibly well-appointed, notably placed…she held her breath, uncertain who would command such a privileged position within the Emperor's retinue.

A slim, lithe redhead set smoothly forward from what looked like a staff wing placed just within the apartment's main doors. She was a striking beauty, flame red hair and porcelain skin with a delicate bloom to her cheeks and full, ruby red lips set off by brilliant emerald green eyes…but there was a coldness to her, a sense of guarded detachment so common to so many here, her icy gaze taking Leia in and summing her up in a glance.

Leia gave the same look back, neither impressed by what they saw.

"And this is?" the redhead prompted, turning to Leia's guard.

"Leia Organa—the Commander asked to see her," the older officer replied smartly. Though the woman wore no uniform, she was obviously very much in charge here.

"When?" the redhead asked, frowning.

"An hour ago."

"Then you're late," the redhead admonished, turning about on her heel to set off down that long, tall central corridor. Leia was ushered forward by a none-too-gentle push from behind.

The wide hallway opened up to a circular crossroad within the apartment, whose high ceiling was set with a huge glass-domed atrium, different cuts and facets within it forming a complex pattern which reflected and refracted light down onto the matching geometric tiles of the pale marble floor beneath. This opened up to another three long corridors, each stretching so far as to make Leia realize that the apartment must cover half of one entire floor of the Tower; a privileged residence, indeed. She was marched quickly past room after room which led off from either side, their open doors revealing cavernous spaces whose long banks of high windows allowed sharp daylight to stream in from the bright morning beyond.

Past grand reception rooms and dark-walled studies, a vast, barrel-ceilinged library whose old-fashioned hard-copy books lined floor-to-ceiling shelves alongside a more contemporary storage system which took an entire wall in its span, pale blue light ridging the edges of hundreds of data cards, art and historic artifacts casually placed about the surfaces of mirror-polished tables.

Conference rooms, social rooms, a substantial, imposing formal dining room to her right with darkly patinated bird's-eye iroko wood paneling the walls and wide slabs of polished burr-elm on the floor, interset with inky darrick banding.

And then into an enfilade of private rooms beyond the public face of the apartment. The first was also wood-paneled, the dark, carved walls of Macassar ebony reaching well above head-height, where scagliola-polished plaster of deepest damson-red continued up to the towering vaulted ceiling, reflected in an inlaid marble floor of glossy black, veined with smoky cream and bound by sweeping, fluid lines of copper inlay.

Incredible, luxuriant wealth, displayed with no real desire to impress in these personal spaces, but simply because this was what the inhabitant was accustomed to. Casual affluence, comfortable and effortless, hinting at the privileged life lived within; a polished, tooled-silver autoreader and several memory chips were left casually to one end of a grand table in the private dining hall, the first heavy, carved chair pushed back as if its inhabitant had been there moments earlier.

Then she was through into a lofty, arched-ceilinged withdrawing room, immense in scale. One wall was a bank of heavily-reinforced windows, beyond which a deep stone-balustraded balcony enjoyed an uninterrupted view of the Palace roof gardens far below, and the distant city beyond. This room too had a tall, all-glass bookcase with hard-copy books inside, all the furniture here scaled up to match the imposing proportions of the room, whose walls were hung with a sumptuously embossed, dark taupe vinesilk. Dense, heavy fur rugs were scattered artfully across the marble floor and a fire was set in the massive hearth against the chill of the spring morning.

And on, into the next room. The officers stopped respectfully as she continued forward with the slim woman into a bedroom, split onto two levels, the lower one where she stood now close to another long, curving bank of tall windows boasting those breathtaking views beyond. To the back of the huge room the higher level was thickly carpeted, whilst nearer to her, the floor was a dark chocolate-and-sand polished fossil-stone which extended into an open corridor at the far side, the walls within a fine mosaic of rich browns and inky black terrazzo. The furniture here was aesthetic and timeless and unmistakably masculine; sizable, heavy, burred wood pieces on sturdy polished copper feet, all suited, all faultless, casually scattered with trinkets and memento's from various planets; clearly a very private, personal room.

Deeply uncertain, Leia glanced to the huge bed which rested in the center of the raised area, whose white linen sheets were perfectly arranged about its occupant. The surrounding technology of angular metal medical equipment arrayed about the bed's head seemed at odds with the comfortable, organic nature of the room. Unwilling to go any further, she craned her neck slightly…and then realized who it was, her feet setting forward of their own volition, her voice broken in recognition. "L – Luke?"

She was by his side in an instant, hand reaching out to rest lightly on his shoulder, hoping to wake him, knowing deep down that it was a futile gesture. She gently brushed his fringe from his eyes, as his eyelids fluttered just slightly in response.

"What have you done to him?" Leia glanced up accusingly.

"Spare me the indignant outrage," the redhead countered, unmoved. "You'd change your tune soon enough if you knew..."

As if realizing she had spoken out of turn, the woman searched for a rationalization of her words, adding a faltering explanation, "that…we were…taking care of him. He came out of his second surgery last night—his third, apparently, since Bespin…"

As Leia stared, uncertain what the woman had sought to conceal, a slight, dark-haired medic walked into the room carrying a tech reader and frowning at the redhead as he pointed to the doors behind him. "What's going on, where are all the…who are you talking to?" He glanced to the bed and noticed Leia, then started forward, hands out. "No, no. I'm sorry, no visitors—not yet."

Leia needed long seconds to place him as the medic who had first rushed forward when Luke had collapsed onboard the _Millennium Falcon_ , after…after Vader.

He was halfway towards her, clearly familiar with this whole strange scenario, when the redhead spoke out. "The Commander authorized it," she said, her words stopping the medic in his tracks as his confused eyes turned from her to Luke.

"The Commander? When?"

"About an hour ago, apparently. Said he wanted to see her. I have no idea why," she added dryly. "I'm not entirely sure he knew what he was doing—or who he passed the command on to."

"No, he hasn't speak to anyone," the medic countered, turning back to Luke. "He hasn't woken yet."

Leia frowned, confused and glancing back to the redhead. Who was the Commander? Why would he allow her to see Luke?

The redhead narrowed those green eyes, glancing to the door. "Wait here. Watch her."

She strode meaningfully out, expression like thunder, leaving Leia with the distinct feeling that she was about to be marched back down to her cell again absolutely none the wiser. She looked quickly back down, whispering Luke's name again, hand to his cheek. No response. Aware of his eyes on her, she turned sharply back up to the medic, who grinned and stepped forward, unabashed.

"Please forgive me; protocol isn't my strong suit, a malady shared by most medics, I'm afraid. I'm Hallin, the Commander's physician." He took another step forward, still smiling genuinely, expression expectant.

It occurred to Leia that he hadn't recognized her. She had no guards here and still wore her own civilian clothes…he didn't remember who she was. She glanced mutely back down; as well as being the mysterious Commander's, was this man also Luke's physician—was that why he was here? Why assign a medic to him, let alone one of this status? More importantly, why was Luke here at all, and not in the Detention Centre? These were too highly-placed to be any rank and file commander's quarters, and even if they were, what was Luke doing here? Was he here so this commander could keep a close watch on him, assigning his own medic at the same time? She stepped forward graciously, intending to find out. "Leia. I'm a friend of Luke's…a close friend."

"Ah," the medic acknowledged. "From the Palace?"

Leia had to fight to hide her frown; how could the man _possibly_ believe that Luke had friends within the Palace? "Do you…you do know who you're treating here?"

The medic raised his eyebrows in surprised response, as if sharing some secret. "Yes…do you?"

Leia hesitated, unsure what to make of that, though her tone remained indignant, giving away none of her confusion. "Of course I do. I just told you, we're old friends."

The medic backed down completely at this. "Of course—forgive me, I'm afraid I'm new to Palace life; protocol and such. Who does and doesn't know."

Bringing her most regal, authoritarian air to bear, Leia smiled graciously as she spoke. If there was one thing she could do, it was stately formality. "I quite understand. How is he?"

Hallin stepped forward, still obviously unsure who she was, but probably recognizing a well-bred upper-class accent and attitude when he heard one, and automatically going into medical-mode. "He's…he's stable now. Comfortable."

Leia glanced down to hide her frown; _Comfortable..?_ Why would the Empire want their number one Most Wanted enemy comfortable? Why would they put him in lavish, extensive private apartments in the ImperialPalace, completely unguarded, doors wide open? She stared at the man for several long seconds, trying unsuccessfully to pull the pieces together.

"I'm sorry…why is he _here?"_ she finally blurted, unable to hide her confusion.

Fortunately, Hallin completely misunderstood, turning to check the medical readouts. "Oh, the Emperor commanded that he be brought back to his own quarters to recover after surgery. I would have preferred that he stay in the dedicated medi-center but…well, you cant' really argue when the command comes down. I'm sure you know that he's been on an extended mission, away from the Palace for some time apparently. I suppose he thought it would be best for the Commander to recuperate in more familiar surroundings, now that the last of his surgeries is complete."

He glanced meaningfully down at Luke's right side and Leia, still thrown from the medic's referral to Luke by rank, only now noticed the perfect prosthetic replacement for his severed hand, a clean white medi-strip wrapped about the point where artificial skin was grafted onto real flesh. She reached tentatively out to touch it; it felt warm beneath her fingers, skin on skin.

"It's the very latest prosthesis, almost as many nerves as the real thing—and the skin is lab-matched. Quite amazing," the medic enthused, completely missing the one real point; _he shouldn't have needed it,_ Leia thought.

"Why did you do this?" she said at last.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, you didn't know? I'm so sorry, the Commander…lost his hand in…a recent…action."

The medic was right; diplomacy wasn't his strong-suit.

"Yes, I do know, and I know who did it. I know everything." Leia couldn't keep the anger from her voice at the medic's carefully modulated reply, as if the Empire had nothing to do with Luke's injuries.

"You know?" he hedged, visibly uncertain how to react to such a direct manner and obviously dubious as to how much she truly knew.

"Vader's many things, but moderate isn't one of them," Leia said.

 

 

"…Yes." Nathan Hallin hesitated as he looked the rather curiously-dressed woman up and down again. He was becoming used to all manner of unexpected individuals here in the corridors of power, though the Commander's sprawling apartments housed only the same few, ever. This was the first new face that he'd seen in here since his arrival…but then there seemed to be a lot of breaks from routine happening today, with the absent guards and doors which were usually locked and guarded flung wide open. Perhaps she was another 'Military Aide,' as Commander Jade was; she certainly had that edge to her, that sense of no-nonsense competence which was, frankly, a little scary.

Still, he was deeply uncomfortable at the woman's direct mention of Vader. It had been made patently clear to him that Skywalker's parentage, his identity, even his name, wasn't general knowledge within the Palace…and just as clear that the Emperor intended to keep it that way. Yet this woman seemed to know; Hallin wondered momentarily just how close a 'friend' she really was, that she'd know so much about him. In truth he knew nothing of Skywalker's past save what he'd learned over the last few days, mostly from Commander Reece, the ex-Imperial guard who had been assigned years ago as Luke's Adjutant—and even that was guarded. There were, in fact, things which Hallin had been told not to mention even to him, and there was clearly a great deal that he was keeping from Hallin. It occurred suddenly that perhaps this woman who seemed so willing to speak her mind, could enlighten him further. "The Commander's relationship with his father is rather…volatile, don't you think?"

She blinked. "I'm sorry?"

Commander Reece chose that moment to come bursting into the room with the towering, blue-skinned Chagrian Chancellor Amedda, no less, trailed by two Imperial Officers.

"Hallin, you're sure that the Commander couldn't have woken this morning?" Reece walked briskly forward, all business, eyes pausing only briefly on the unknown woman, who glanced between them in silence.

"Quite sure." Hallin turned to his medical readouts, activating a screen to check his facts. "Yes, quite sure. He hasn't yet regained consciousness."

 

 

Leia had retreated a step as The Emperor's chancellor, Mas Amedda, had entered the room, knowing that her chance for any further information was lost. She turned back to stare at Luke, mind swimming in a sea of confusion, still trying to fathom the meaning of the medic's question, so casually spoken, The obvious conclusion to draw was that Luke and Vader…but that was wrong, of course. He was wrong, or she'd misunderstood. Yes, misunderstood; the whole morning had been strangely surreal. The conversation carried on about her, distant to her ears.

"I'm telling you, Chancellor Cordo said that he'd been in here this morning, speaking to him," the older officer said, his tone that of someone being asked to validate the same question over and over.

Amedda frowned at that. "The Emperor's Aide?"

"Yes. He said the Commander was awake and had ordered Leia Organa to be brought up here. I'm just doing as I was told by—forgive me—the ranking officer present."

Strangely, this seemed to make the Chancellor hesitate for long seconds, his eyes turning to Luke again. Finally, he made up his mind. "Well the ranking officer isn't awake, and I'm telling you to take her back down. If the Commander wakes and asks to see her again, which I seriously doubt, I'll have her brought up again."

Finally, it permeated through Leia's shocked thoughts… _the Commander_ … _the_ Commander. They were speaking about _Luke!_ There was no second Commander who had issued the order to bring her here. They were speaking about Luke as if _he_ could give out orders…as if they knew him!

The officer bowed his head and clicked his heels together in military acknowledgement, then started toward Leia. Her eyes remained on Luke in shocked silence until the officer took her arm and hauled her away, leaving the medic to watch in confused alarm as she was practically dragged from the room.

 

 

Bewildered, Nathan Hallin turned to Mas Amedda as he too made to leave, "I'm sorry, is she not a friend of the Commander?"

The Chagrian turned icy eyes on him. "She was. She's not anymore," he said simply, not bothering to wait for a reply.

 

 

 

As ordered, Mara had waited outside the apartments for Amedda before returning to the Op's Suite two stories up, where the Emperor stared at virtual screens showing Skywalker's quarters from various viewpoints, with Hallin now tending to his patient, oblivious.

"Your timing was impeccable as ever, Amedda," Palpatine rewarded as they entered, bowing to his back.

"It remains to be seen whether she'll believe it, Excellency. She only has the medic's word for it—and that obscurely," he replied, studying the images…and Leaving Mara to narrow her eyes, sure that something was being kept from her.

Why bother making Amedda curtail the Rebel woman's visit when Mara could so easily have returned and broken up the discussion at the relevant moment?

"She'll piece it together. She was always an intelligent young woman." Palpatine smiled as he scrolled through images on another virtual screen until he found her whereabouts, scowling in confusion as she was marched down long corridors towards the Main Palace and the Detention Center far below, with rare white-armored stormtroopers before and behind her. One of the officers reached out to grab her arm as she walked too far ahead and she jerked free, turning to deliver some unheard diatribe at her captors.

"I thought we would have to wait forever for the medic to tell her," Palpatine murmured at last, amused.

Mara turned again from the screen; _tell her what?_ Hadn't this been to persuade the Rebel Princess that her precious Jedi was actually an Imperial agent, sent by Palpatine to infiltrate the Rebellion…though why exactly that was important escaped Mara. He was gone from them now…why bother to sully his name there?

She was still uncomfortable that she'd been ordered to hide all the guards and unlock all the doors to his apartments, presenting them as genuine quarters rather than a heavily-fortified prison. What if he had woken? It would have been her who would have been responsible for containing an irate Jedi rampaging through the PalaceTowers. Hallin said he had woken twice onboard the _Executor_ when he was supposedly drugged with custom-developed sedatives.

"You worry too much, child," Palpatine said without turning, not hiding the fact that he was listening to her thoughts, as he always did.

She never hid them, not from him—which was why he trusted her. Not that she could anyway; he had taught her everything she knew about the Force, taught her to put up shields about her mind, to hide knowledge and intent even from Lord Vader. But he had not taught her one fraction of what _he_ knew…which was also why he trusted her.

"This way was better," her master added. "A little spontaneity goes a long way. She'll find no artifice in the medic's actions because there was none. You had your task and Amedda had his…and I'm sure neither of you would ever disappoint me."

He didn't look to her as he issued the last, confidence and demand both, as subtle yet as crystal clear as ever. Mara didn't react; she'd heard the same abstruse threats since childhood, when she'd first been brought to the Palace, her rare abilities making her an ideal candidate for her master's exacting requirements.

"But is it enough to make her believe that he's an Imperial agent?" Mara worried. Intelligence suggested that Organa knew Skywalker well; had done so for years. She wouldn't be easily swayed.

"Will she tell the Alliance leadership everything?" Amedda added at last, bringing Mara's inquisitive gaze to him; _everything?_

The Emperor smiled confidently, his answer vague enough to reply to both Amedda and Mara's questions equally. "Oh, I'm sure she'll find countless reasons not to at first. But I'll give her equal reasons to question that. She'll believe eventually, and tell her precious Rebellion. She's too loyal not to. And the truth has a way of outing…Skywalker is proof of that."

Mara nodded, confident that her master's plans—whatever they really were—would come to fruition at his designated pace. They always did.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

 

** CHAPTER FIVE **

 

 

 

Palpatine walked purposefully down the wide, high corridors in the palatial WestTower to Skywalker's quarters. Guards became more and more in evidence as he grew closer, and his pulse quickened, senses heightening in anticipation of the task ahead.

Today more than ever he bristled with dark intent. Today he faced his Jedi. Today the battle lines would be drawn. Subtly though; he knew the boy from long study. Always from afar; information from agents and spies and second-hand accounts, but he had a good sense of how this battle would need to be fought. Nothing too overt—the boy would bridle at that—this would be a subtler game, a slow subversion. Death of a thousand cuts, plans hidden within plans; some distant, some immediate.

Some underway already…if his acerbic little Princess would be so good as to carry the information Palpatine had provided her with back to her Rebellion. He had carefully scattered clues and traces to be found by them, both within their precious little Rebellion and further afield, when they eventually began to look. No matter what, there would be no going back for his new Jedi. He would make sure of that.

His thoughts went momentarily back to the Princess; to her vague attenuation within the Force, very much like Mara, his wonderful, pitiless assassin. His 'Hand' when she fulfilled his orders far from the Core Systems, in delicate situations which required a certain…distance.

He had trained many 'Hands' over the years; people of exceptional ability with an affinity in the Force, agents who travelled the Empire carrying out his will, hearing his voice and replying in kind. Though he took care only to give enough knowledge to serve, never sufficient to represent even a passing complication.

Leia Organa could be taught, if he had the inclination. Not too much; just enough to be useful.

But not now—now, she would fulfill his plans far better by running back to her Rebellion and spreading suspicions. She was high enough in the hierarchy there to be trusted, even over their precious hero, their vaunted 'Destroyer of the Death Star.' It would necessitate someone of her status to override their reluctance; someone who actually knew him and who clearly had their own doubts, even as they betrayed him.

Yes; one must be prepared to surrender a few pawns in the greater game, and Palpatine was certainly willing to give up the opportunity to train another Hand, in return for cutting his Jedi's connections with the Rebellion. He had Mara, and that was enough for now. She too had a specific role in his future plans, which was why he needed her here, with his Jedi. She would doubtless object privately, but she would never voice her frustrations.

Meanwhile, Palpatine could concentrate on Skywalker. On the subtle war of words and wills which would begin today. On the web he would weave about the boy, pulling him in ever further with contradictions and insinuations…though in this instance they were hardly needed. Skywalker's own twisted, shattered life was desolate enough; realization of his coldly calculating betrayal by the Jedi he had so willingly trusted would surely be feeling like a knife in his heart right now.

Because that was the truth, the actual, wonderful, glorious, ironic truth. Palpatine had been _given_ this Jedi. He had been handed it on a plate, with the key to opening the path down into its own dark shadows so considerately provided by Kenobi. Because Kenobi had lied to it; had committed the greatest sin possible in knowingly depriving a stolen child of its father, and then compounded that sin by lying not only about the boy's lineage, but just as importantly about his own involvement, in his efforts to control the boy.

Did he really believe he could keep a truth like that hidden?

Oh, the boy would still resist; he would still fight, Palpatine knew. But it would be a reflex action, the final fragments of a shattered life. A pale shadow of the unassailable conviction which would have built his resistance had he not sustained this gaping wound of Kenobi's making. Now, when they finally faced each other, his Jedi would carry within him a terrible, destructive flaw, too great to even begin to process yet—and Palpatine would give him no time to do so, no moment's grace to come to terms with the chaos of confusion. Right now he would be desperately lost. Loss of faith in those he trusted, loss of identity in the face of cold reality, loss of certitude, questioning his belief in his own ability to withstand the Darkness.

So this was Palpatine's task when they finally faced; to use what Kenobi had so considerately provided. To search out more weakness, any flaw which could be exploited. To gently, infinitesimally, begin to nudge his Jedi's perspective away from where it stood now, towards Darkness. To steal those final fragments of hope now, whilst the boy was still willing to listen, then to rip away by any means his last vestiges of control and see what the boy would do; whether he truly had his father's blood in his veins.

And that was the gamble; to push too hard too soon would only alienate when Palpatine needed to maintain an open dialogue between them; establish a precedent that would remain, no matter what.

But he also had to fix the rules of their future relationship from the outset; that he was the Master, invincible and unassailable. That any divergence from Palpatine's rules, no matter how small, would be swiftly and violently curtailed.

No warnings, no degrees of response.

He was the Master and his word was absolute.

Such complex contradictions to weave into these first meetings of minds, a careful line to be tread. But this had always been Palpatine's forte, to subjugate and dominate, to manipulate to his advantage and break those around him to his will, instinctively knowing what would be required to dissect the mind within.

Breaking a mind was easy of course, and so amusing, to push another to the brink again and again, physically and mentally. To see just how many times one could do that before the mind within snapped. The challenge now, however, was to do so in such a way that it could be rebuilt. Reshaped to Palpatine's purpose. He had never had the opportunity to do this with its father—not like this, all plays out in the open, intent and counter, consequences clear, nothing hidden.

This was the art of the game. And this he would enjoy.

He entered its quarters, heavily-guarded again now, aware of its presence just two locked rooms away, knowing in that same instant that it was aware of his. It was slow though; still recovering from surgery and drugs, woken only a short time earlier and not yet having been allowed to leave that single room. But it hadn't reacted at this restriction—hadn't struggled or objected—perhaps because it knew it wasn't capable yet. Maybe it realized that Palpatine was near…or was this in recognition of its surroundings, which were hardly contentious?

Perhaps it simply acknowledged the inevitable.

His awareness of it dimmed as it raised mental barriers in defense, and he smiled, amused; as if they would make a difference. But let it feel safe…for now.

 

 

 

 

Sitting quietly in a chair by the inches-thick window, dressed in the only clothes they had left for him, Luke gazed out watching the evening light wane into the night, lost in thought, his left hand rubbing absently at his forehead to ease the pressure there.

He was dressed in black, a color he seldom wore. A fitted, stand-collared shirt of smooth, refined cortal linen whose buttons were formed from tiny, hand-woven vinesilk knots, the braided loops which fastened them made of the same decorative cord which looped in finely-stitched, intricate patterns about the front of the shirt. He'd left several open, hot and claustrophobic despite the grand proportions of the room, so that the intricately topstitched high collar hung loose, the fine fabric cool against his skin. The trousers too were black, flawlessly tailored, their fabric heavier and closely woven. Even the boots, of a soft supple hide he didn't recognize, were perfectly fitted, handmade to the highest quality and subtly stitched, black-on-black.

He felt deeply, uncomfortably out of place in them. Awkward and self-conscious, aware that the shirt alone probably cost more than Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen had earned in a year on Tatooine. Lost in their darkness, a pale shadow smothered and swallowed up by their casual opulence. Was this too mind games, as the room doubtless was? Designed to set him ill-at-ease, make him feel out of his depth. Or was it all simply to illustrate what was on offer.

What would the Sith do when Luke refused, he wondered.

He knew Palpatine was Sith—knew it without doubt, now. It had always been whispered within Intelligence circles; had been an open secret for years. And now, here, aware in a way he had never been before…he _knew_.

Something…resided here. It brooded in the dead of night and the bright light of day, its intensity overriding all else. Not like Vader; that was a massive locus in the Force, a hulking knot of Dark intent too great to ignore. This shadow writhed and twisted, defying quantification, at once massive and intangible and infinitely dangerous. It enclosed and enveloped, like a pressure change, like the still before the storm.

What should he do? What _could_ he do?

He had no idea…absolutely no idea.

— _Ben…_ —

Luke reached out with his senses, but only Darkness answered, smug and self-satisfied, completely confident. Completely alien. He had no experience of this, no idea how to combat it. And it was everywhere here, blanketing everything in that dense, impenetrable fog, isolating and limiting and subtly hindering. To withstand it—just that, just to hold it at bay—took every ounce of applied concentration. His abilities seemed strangely muted here, contact with the Force hard to maintain as it swirled away from him, lost in a vast sea of Darkness which pushed ever inwards, a perpetual pressure looking for any weakness, any ingress.

Consideration of this constant, grinding weight made him rub at his temples again, though it did nothing to ease the pressure, his focus pulled taut as he strained to hold against it. And still the storm grew nearer…

— _What do I do?_ —

Luke pulled his hand away, still trembling with weakness. _What should I do?_

More than anything else, his thoughts were with his friends now. Realization of Vader's words—that they were a weakness—hammered home. His heart burned in his chest at that fear. Fear that the Emperor would use them…fear that it would work.

How could it not?

The sound of the heavy double-doors releasing dragged him from his reverie and he turned to see the red-haired woman enter, hard eyes glaring at him.

"The Emperor commands your presence." She lifted an arm, indicating the door.

Swallowing once against his dry throat and gathering what weary wits he had about him, Luke rose and walked forward between the towering, silent Royal Guards who fell in to flank him one step back as he crossed the threshold.

He walked into a second cavernous room, cold and unwelcoming despite lavish furnishings, and a second set of tall doors grated open to its far side, too heavy to be the carved wooden panels they appeared. Into a third room with his silent, imposing escort to his sides. This one was very much inhabited, its occupant blaring out through the Force, a locus of power so great that Luke flinched involuntarily.

Darkness, thick and roiling, almost a physical thing this close to its wielder, obscuring everything. The expansive room in no way diminished the Sith's crooked frame as he stood close to the huge fireplace, at ease in the shadows; kindred spirits.

A fire was lit in the hearth; bone-white wood which cracked and popped, made brittle by the flame. Heat roared as it buffeted and baked the air in the grand hearth, easily high enough that Luke could have stepped beneath the lintel without bending, its amber flicker overriding the low lights of the huge room to make the shadows dance in darkness.

Strangely, the long table to the centre of the chamber was set for dinner, two chairs placed at opposite ends, footmen waiting nervously.

The Emperor—the Sith—turned as Luke entered…to smile benignly, though the shadows of the fire played cruel tricks on his ravaged features, giving the expression a dangerous edge. Still, he bowed his head just slightly…and Luke, at a complete loss for words and uncertain what else to do, did the same.

"Jedi," the Sith acknowledged, his voice thin and reedy; rasping.

He wore long, richly decorated robes in darkest crewel-worked ruby, and a heavy mantle of raven black. A high collar pushed at the pale, waxen flesh of his neck and his bone-white hand gripped a polished, twisted cane which clicked on the stone floor as he used it for support…though like Master Yoda, Luke suspected it was more for effect than necessity.

A flurry of heavy cloth whispering against the polished marble floor as the Sith took a halting step forward then paused, staring intently at his captive.

Ashen and frail, aware that the exertion of the short walk had reduced him to trembling uncontrollably, heart pounding so loud he could hear it catch in his breaths, Luke wondered at the insignificant image he projected.

"You should sit," the Emperor said obligingly, bringing Luke's gaze up in surprise.

Palpatine walked to settle into the far chair, nodding at the red haired woman who bowed and left, affording Luke a brief glimpse of the brightly-lit corridor beyond, his mind sharpening a little, dragging itself awake at the opportunity. Six. Six guards against the far wall of the corridor, weapons held ready at the open door…but he was sure he sensed far more than that. They must be on either side of the door as well.

"Did you hear me?" It was not quite a challenge, but it brought Luke's eyes back to the Emperor.

"I heard you."

Had he said that, so casually? His first words, given boldness by the fact that his mind was elsewhere. Still he didn't move.

Palpatine tilted his head, unimpressed; amused even. "Then stand. We'll see which one of us falls first."

Luke remained still for several seconds, his head swimming. How had he managed to get into a war of wills already? _Don't do it; don't get into a fight you can't win over nothing._

 

 

Palpatine noted how the boy tried to disguise the extent of his own fragility as he walked shakily to the chair, left hand extended to steady himself before he reached it. His Jedi sat, collapsing back in exhaustion to look out from heavily-hooded eyes, dwarfed by the towering guards who stepped to either side.

The Emperor smiled, content. "There are twelve."

At the momentary frown which brushed the boy's wary features, he clarified. "Twelve guards; a full complement. There is also a garrison in the room at the end of the hallway; a further twenty-four guards. They hold to nine-hour shifts in the corridors outside. They know what you are and what you're capable of. None will hesitate."

He continued, quite happy to volunteer this information as reward in acknowledgment of the fact that the boy had done as he'd been commanded. It was of little use other than to spell out how unlikely his escape was and anyway, the contest was between himself and his Jedi; lesser beings were of little importance. They served only to clarify Palpatine's resolve. "There are a further eighteen battalions assigned to this HabitationTower, the same to each of the others. These rooms have been designed specifically for you—a prison to hold a Jedi. My Jedi. Specifically where I want him."

 

 

Ignoring the obvious taunt, Luke leaned back, resting his aching right hand on the carved arm of the chair and feeling deathly tired. For long seconds neither spoke, Palpatine simply watching him. The still silence stretched and Luke blinked slowly, feeling no need to break it.

Time trickled in silent anticipation…

He lifted a heavy, trembling right hand to his temple, to…

A shock of pain ran the length of his arm and lit fireworks in his mind, the memory pulling his eyes to his hand.

He'd woken to the shooting pain of fresh surgery, a clinical white dressing about his forearm, the same slight, olive-skinned medic from the Star Destroyer telling him to take care as he'd struggled to hold it out before him, clumsy and trembling, turning his arm about to study the perfect replica. In seconds, he'd had to drop the arm, cradling it in his left hand against the incredible dull heaviness. It had felt warm in his real hand, though he had no sensation from it beside needle-fine stabs of pain where he touched it.

He tried again now to move his fingers; they tingled like pins and needles, every nerve white hot yet strangely numb, as if he were wearing a thick, heavy glove which dulled senses and restricted movement. Awkward, jerky movement flexed the fingers which were completely familiar yet disturbingly alien.

Palpatine's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Feeling will return over the next few weeks, as nerves heal and your mind learns how to control it. I'm sure you're a quick study." There was the amusement of double meaning in his voice at this last comment.

Luke glanced up, unsure how to react.

Palpatine smiled benignly. "Lord Vader is…effective, but hardly subtle. Akin to using a blunt instrument. I gave him only the command to bring you here."

Did he expect _gratitude_? Luke bristled at this, the scowl pulling fine lines about his eyes.

His mind was clearing now, that first rush of blind panic subsiding, drowned by his anger at Palpatine's remark, his own stubborn refusal to be intimidated affording him a burst of adrenaline. Still, a little of Yoda's teaching had rubbed off; where previously Luke would have immediately gone on the offensive, now, he had the good grace to find his center, relax tense muscles and wait this out.

 

 

Palpatine noted the boy's momentary reaction, quickly quashed; more than he would have expected. More so because of…what? He narrowed his eyes in contemplation and the boy did likewise, aware that he was being studied. Watching him, Palpatine sensed that stubborn will coming into play, like his father.

"Eat," Palpatine prompted at last, one hand casually extended, palm up.

"I'm not hungry," the boy said simply, without even looking to the table.

Which amused Palpatine immensely; he grinned with undisguised amusement as the game began. "Of course you are. I thought you served as a soldier in your petty little Rebellion. Did they teach you nothing? A soldier always eats whenever he's given the opportunity; he never knows when the next meal will come."

The boy only blinked without moving, refusing to be drawn.

"Very well, the choice is yours," Palpatine turned to nod at the servant, who stepped forward to fill the goblet before him with wine, his counterpart doing the same beside Luke.

When they had stepped back, Palpatine glanced at them and the Red Guards who had remained behind his Jedi. "Leave," he commanded simply, turning his eyes on the boy as the guards walked from the room, followed by the bowing servers.

The moment hung for a long time, expectant…

 

 

It had, of course, occurred to Luke that there were now no guards to stop him either turning and making an escape attempt or launching himself across the table at his captor. Preferably both.

But the fact that Palpatine had allowed this meant that he had also planned for it. One didn't rise to rule an Empire by failing to consider consequences, and whatever else he thought the Emperor, Luke didn't for a moment think him stupid. And the truth was that at the moment he doubted very much whether he could reach the door at the far side of the cavernous room, even without intervention.

So he remained still.

Finally, when the Emperor had seen that Luke had worked this moment through, he settled back, content. "Apparently you have learned something."

Luke remained impassive, allowing the conversation to be led. Palpatine had presumably brought him here to say something, and he believed he knew what. Still, the silence hung heavy for a long time, until finally Luke felt himself pressured to speak.

As was his nature, he came straight to the point. "What do you want?"

Palpatine smiled pointedly. "Want? I already have everything that I want."

Luke recoiled slightly at the inference, but held his peace, surprising himself at his calm. "Then I presume there's something you have to say to me?" He wanted this over—wanted Palpatine to ask the question so that he could refuse. No delaying of the inevitable. He would rather deal with the reality of his situation than play these mocking games.

"No," the Emperor said simply without further elaboration, leaving Luke to frown, uncertain now.

"Then why am I here?" he asked across the divide.

"I simply wished to meet Lord Vader's son."

 

 

Palpatine watched closely this time, noting the subtle changes in the boy's stance as he tensed at the designation, his hackles rising automatically. Sensed the more obvious play of emotions through the Force. _There_ — _there it is!_

"I understand that you were unaware of your lineage?" he pushed, searching for further confirmation. Aside from tightening his jaw, the boy offered none visibly this time, though his sense in the Force boiled. "It would seem a rather…glaring omission on the part of your previous Master, Kenobi. You did know he was also your father's former Master."

The boy didn't react, but then it had been a statement rather than a question.

Palpatine smiled, making no attempt to hide the mocking derision in his voice. "One must begin to wonder whether he had ever intended to tell you your pedigree. Perhaps…perhaps after you had unwittingly committed patricide for him."

The boy's eyes hooded, voice tightening. "You know nothing about it. They wouldn't—"

"He used you," Palpatine dismissed, cutting him off. "Don't be naïve. It's unfitting to your station."

 

 

Luke had stopped dead, but not for the reason Palpatine presumed. He had made an error, and now was terrified that the Sith would spot it, chiding his own impulsive outburst. He forced his mind to work, to cover the mistake and reinforce Palpatine's assumption. "I'm not naïve. I understand what he did—and why he did it."

"Then since you defend him, one must assume you think him right?" The Emperor pushed, apparently searching to clarify whether Luke's anger was disillusionment at Ben's pretence, or resentment of Vader's harsh truth.

And for the first time, Luke smiled too, in realization. Subtly, and it was gone in an instant. But the awareness that Palpatine wasn't infallible—that he wasn't all-knowing or all-seeing—gave Luke some flicker of confidence, even here. He leaned back just slightly, relaxed almost imperceptibly.

"You may assume what you wish."

 

 

Palpatine remained still, noting the change in the boy, aware that something, some perception, had subtly shifted. That his Jedi had reassessed. He stared in silence for a long time as the fire crackled in the grate, releasing a high-pitched hiss as moisture burned from the logs. The boy didn't speak further this time; felt no need to fill the silence or substantiate his vague words.

 _Chose_ not to speak further.

He paused, mentally reassessing his own strategies accordingly. "And failing any information to the contrary, I shall, Jedi."

"You're mistaken—I'm not a Jedi."

Palpatine raised his eyebrows, setting his head to one side. "Did he teach you nothing at all, your pitiful Master? You are a Jedi when you are acknowledged as such by your peers." He paused, a thin smile splitting his lips. "Though it is amusing…that your cognizance should be acknowledged by a Sith. Fitting, I think."

"You'll forgive me, but I don't consider your opinion particularly relevant in this." The boy's confident voice belied his patent uncertainty as to whether Palpatine lied, but he seemed resolved of this fact, either way.

"Then whose blessing do you seek, Jedi?" Palpatine asked, grinning knowingly into the boy's silence. "Kenobi's? Because I can promise you that you are already more powerful than he ever was."

"Power isn't everything."

"No?" Palpatine said. "It keeps you here."

"I haven't tried to leave yet."

Palpatine laughed out loud, appreciating the boy's spirit despite the gravity of his situation; perhaps he was more like his father than he realized.

"What am I to do with you, my friend?" he finally asked into the boy's wary countenance, his voice amicable, as if indulging an old acquaintance who had committed some minor misdemeanor. "What should I do with a known insurrectionist who makes open war against me, challenges my rule and destroys my armies?"

"I believe the penalty for sedition is death."

 

 

Luke was surprised by how little emotion sounded in his steady voice. The Emperor leaned back, amused, almost laughing.

"Yes…but what a waste!" Luke held silent, so Palpatine leaned forward, still grinning. "What a waste on both our parts."

"That would depend on what you have to lose."

"And what you have to gain."

Luke leaned back, arms resting on the huge carved chair, eyes tightening. "What are you offering?"

The Emperor almost, _almost_ spoke out…then paused, ocher eyes narrowing dangerously, the change mercurial. "Don't ever think to lie to me."

The threat in his words was chilling despite the heat of the fire. Still, Luke would not blink. "I thought that was the nature of the game."

"You should not be so eager to play games when your life hangs in the balance, my friend."

"I'm not your friend."

Palpatine stared for several seconds then sighed, the slightest of smiles tugging bloodless lips from darkened teeth, but never reaching his eyes. "You do make it so very difficult for yourself, child."

"To do what?"

"I am offering you _everything_. Everything you've ever desired. Things you do not even realize you want yet."

"You have nothing I want," Luke said simply, very sure.

 

 

Palpatine shook his head slowly, taking again the opportunity to slowly pull his Jedi into discussion and call into question those he trusted. Nothing too contentious at first; he didn't wish to push him away but to lure him in further. Enough to entangle, though—to make him consider, make him question. This would be a slow attrition, a thousand carefully placed allusions and insinuations about his unknown past, leaving the boy always waiting for and wanting more.

"I have the truth of who you really are. It was not I who lied or betrayed. Believe me, it is as much Kenobi's fault that you are here now as your father's…and there are deeper reasons, greater truths." Palpatine leaned back, tone self-righteous but indulgent. "Ask any question and I will answer honestly."

Seconds passed, in which neither broke the gaze of the other, eye to eye, reading intent… Finally the boy half-smiled, warily shaking his head.

"I don't believe you," he held, refusing to be drawn in.

"Why would I need to lie? I assure you, the truth is far more damning than any pretence I could conjure. The past whispers of the future. Your destiny runs with the blood in your veins."

"I don't believe you," the youth repeated, his tone so clipped, so sure.

But only in voice; in intent rather than belief, Palpatine recognized. Though he hid it well, that had cut deep. He filed it away with other flaws, to be exploited at leisure.

"You are unwise. Unwise to question my word, and more so to try to bait me. Do you know what I am capable of?"

"I believe you capable of anything in pursuit of your goals," the boy said, clearly using his belief to validate his mistrust.

"Yes…I am." Palpatine let the threat hang for long seconds. "But I will _never_ lie to you." He said it firmly, underlining this enticement before taking the conversation back to what had so clearly disturbed the boy moments before; the inference of preordained destiny; that his father's fate would be his own. "As I do not lie now, when I say that there can be only one outcome to this."

 

 

Luke felt the pressure of Palpatine's words, spoken with such knowing certainty. So much so that it took him several seconds to gather his wits around the mass of rising insecurities which froze all thought. This was his weakness, and he knew it; the knowledge Vader had forced upon him had left him paralyzed with doubts. He pushed himself past them, an exercise in discipline. Master Yoda would have been proud of him. "Really? Because I see three."

The Emperor smiled, shaking his head indulgently like a teacher explaining the way of the universe to a confused child. "You will kneel before me."

"Or I will not yield, and you'll kill me." Luke raised his eyebrows slightly, offering his third alternative. "Or you'll drop your guard, and I'll kill you."

Palpatine laughed out loud at this, genuinely amused. "I think not."

"And that's why I shall."

"No, my friend. I am a hard man to kill."

Luke nodded somberly. "I'll remember that."

"I hope you have a very long memory."

"For that, I do."

The Emperor grinned, amused; the smile of a bantha cautioned by a flea. "Hardly fitting words for a typical Jedi Knight. But then you are hardly typical…did Kenobi tell you what, as well as who you really are, Jedi? Or did he omit that information, too?"

Luke paused, freshly confused. Struggling to ignore pressing fatigue, he willed himself to concentrate though his body was slumping now, his head beginning to drop in exhaustion from even this short exertion, intense as it was. He remembered Vader's words to him onboard the Star Destroyer…of his heritage, his bloodline.

 

 

Palpatine watched as the barest frown lined the boy's features for an instant before that neutral mask fell again. But his curiosity was evident in the Force, a morbid fascination, both desiring to know and reluctant to hear.

A perfect beginning.

"But you are tired, my friend. You should rest. We will speak again tomorrow." Palpatine smiled indulgently, knowing what it would mean to the boy to leave this conversation here, how it would eat into his thoughts. For himself, Palpatine already had all that he required out of this meeting; to leave it here could only be to his advantage.

Knowledge was power, and power always held a price. If his Jedi wanted more information, then he would have to sit at this table again. And he would come back—willingly. Only Palpatine and Vader held the truth, and judging from the boy's reactions tonight, Palpatine knew now that he would never go to Vader. In fact, he was counting on it.

Here, at his table, was his only possibility of ever laying to rest a hidden, haunted past.

How could he not take it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

 

** CHAPTER SIX **

 

 

 

The substantial double-doors cycled through their release, grinding open on hidden sliders.

 _That's one very heavy door_ , Luke thought dryly as he turned from the chair by the thick bulk of the reinforced window.

He'd been left alone to his thoughts all day. Only not quite alone; two Red Guard had stayed in the room, standing to either side of the door throughout the day, visited occasionally by the hard-eyed redhead. At first, he'd been uncomfortable beneath their constant, silent scrutiny, but had eventually rationalized that they didn't seem inclined to interact or interfere at all. Finally, he'd decided to simply ignore them, and wandered round the massive, split-level bedroom, walking down the wide, intricately mosaic-tiled corridor which led to a dressing room and a 'fresher suite, both windowless. Hung neatly in the dressing room to one side of the corridor were five complete sets of clothing, all of which were in dark hues of midnight blue, somber slate gray and black. All of which, disturbingly, looked like they'd fit him perfectly.

He'd left, not wishing to think about it for the moment.

Back into the cavernous bedroom, the rooms beyond still locked to him, the guards at the door. He'd studied the tall transparisteel sheets in the windows carefully. Up close, they were threaded through with two interwoven layers of fine filament, tough enough as to be visible to the naked eye; you didn't see that even in military vessels.

He'd wandered again round the substantial room, hands dragging casually against the walls, wondering how thick they were. He'd stood as close as his wary guards would allow him to the huge carved wooden doors, knowing they wouldn't be wood, remembering their thickness from the night before and pondering how the locks worked.

He'd wondered whether anyone would feed him.

He'd sat cross-legged on the floor before the window, meditating, trying to locate the others through the Force. Finding Leia had brought an unexpected smile to his face and he'd almost, _almost_ , reached out to her, to try to make contact as he had done at Bespin. But fear of discovery had held him back; that they would realize that he could contact her, even if she couldn't reply, and so move her further away.

But he'd followed that trail…down…a long way down. Many, many levels below him and off to one side. Still, he'd found her, and so presumably the others. He made his first mental map of his surroundings; his position in relation to her, a vague idea of distance…

Then he'd broken the contact, already worrying that his transgression would be discovered. He'd concentrated on trying to raise mental barriers, pushing out the grating buzz which pressed against his thoughts, forced by necessity to begin to develop this skill beyond what Yoda had taught him.

He'd gazed out again at the monolithic Towers and the distant city beyond, forehead resting against the inches-thick transparisteel. A million lives being lived, ordinary, normal lives…he craved that now with easily as much ardor as he'd once craved the excitement of adventure far from Tatooine.

He'd watched a fiery sunset, the huge moon stained red by the dying embers of the day.

He'd wondered again if someone would feed him; realized just how unlikely that was, since he'd refused to eat at Palpatine's table last night. His jaw tightened at that, knowing that this was now a little war of wills. A stupid war of wills with only one realistic outcome.

He'd had the sense to sit last night rather than enter into that battle. What logic had deserted him when he'd refused to eat? Stupid; stupid thing to do. All the more so because he knew—he _knew_ —that if he went back to that table, he'd still refuse to eat. _Stupid, stubborn, ornery…_

He shook his head slowly, chastising himself when Master Yoda was no longer around to do it for him. Chiding himself again at his negative frame of mind.

So when the door began its cycle to the sound of multiple bolts releasing in sequence, he'd been thankful for the interruption. The tight-lipped redhead had walked into the room on the balls of her feet, turning to him before the door was fully open.

_Too soon; she knew where I was already. They have surveillance in here._

Cold green eyes fixed on him as she said simply, "The Emperor commands your presence."

He remained sitting in the chair for long seconds, wondering what she'd do if he said no… Wondering why he was even thinking that; he already had one pointless little battle going on right now, the last thing he needed was another.

He was learning—but to whose benefit, he wondered.

Aware that his gaze was still on her, the woman's intense green eyes turned momentarily wary. Luke watched her for several more seconds, taking in the cool, reserved look in his jailor's expression, wondering whether it was defensive reflex or real emotion.

Which left the burning question, what was really going on behind that glacial stare. "What was your name?"

She looked away, didn't reply. Luke dropped his head back down, massaging at his temples again. "Nice name. A little short." She'd relax eventually, relent a little. Push too hard and she'd only back off further.

Besides, he had a feeling he'd have the time to invest—and for some reason, he felt it should be in her. She was, after all, quite clearly responsible for security; for keeping him here. If nothing else, it would give him something other than the Emperor's meticulous little manipulations to think about…and that was a good thing.

He rose and walked loosely forward. The redhead stepped back warily so she remained outside his reach.

"Jumpy little thing, aren't you?" he murmured lightly.

She set her head to one side, those cold eyes remaining pointedly unamused as he passed by.

He walked again beneath the stretching, arched ceiling of the lounge, his two guards falling into pace behind him as he passed huge, heavy furniture to equal the scale of the room. Six Royal Guard remained at the door he had passed through, six more at the door he walked toward. Into the huge hall, exactly as before, dim shadows lit by scarlet flames, the long table set and laden with food.

And the Emperor, hooded yellow eyes burning into him, cold amusement written clear on his face.

Luke felt his hackles rise; forced himself calm again by strength of will. Still, he couldn't stop his jaw clenching and his eyes narrowing, which only brought a wide smile to the old man's thin, bloodless lips.

 

 

Palpatine smiled at the boy's instant reaction as he entered the room; how he advertised every emotion on his face, how he blared it out through the Force.

Did he not realize?

How refreshingly naïve he was, how wonderfully unaffected and artless. It was a pity that this would be lost—sacrificed to Darkness. But how useful it was here and now, all that passion and zeal. How easy it was to twist and use…once one had a strategy.

Because any intense emotion was a weakness, especially when it came to the boy's father. He had sensed it in their first meeting last night, all that anger, that confusion, that wonderfully impassioned denial—not necessarily to believe; he knew it was true—but certainly to accept. That was what drove him now. Loyalty too, of course; to his friends and his cause, but that was of no use to Palpatine. It could be made to serve his ends, but only in the most limited sense. He had needed something greater, something deeper. Loyalty was a strength—he had needed a flaw. And now he had found one, so considerately provided by Kenobi.

Because the boy was afraid. Not of Palpatine, although he should be. But that lesson could and would be taught, in a manner which he would never forget.

No, this fear was very different…and wonderfully destructive.

This was fear that his father's fate was his own, because the same weakness ran in his veins. That had glared out in their short discussion last night; fear that his fall, like his father's, was inevitable. All twisted through with resentment, with true, bitter hatred of Vader because of it. And betrayal. By Kenobi, to have lied so easily, by the father he never knew he had; found and lost in a single beat of a bruised heart.

Wonderful, primal emotions. Powerful and undeniable.

Given time of course, the boy would have come to terms with his heritage; time and distance always afforded perspective. But Palpatine had no intention of granting either. He had gained Skywalker at just the right moment—and he fully intended to exploit it. He would push forward whilst the boy was still reeling, underline that connection, that perceived weakness. Convince him of its reality, the inevitability of his fate, the weakness in his blood. Keep them close, father and son; keep them in opposition. Always pushing, always goading, never the time to come to terms, to deal with this vulnerability. Stir up all the crippling fears and doubts which fed that resentment and then release the boy on his father.

Yes, a wonderful, gaping weakness.

There were others, of course, and he would use them all, but nothing like this. This had already delivered his new Jedi to him. With careful manipulation, it would give him his Sith.

That thought brought a smile to his face, which unsettled his Jedi even further. Palpatine turned to hide his amusement, walking slowly to his own chair and sitting before finally looking up to his Jedi indulgently. "Sit."

 

 

Even at this, so simple an invitation handed out with such subtle, hidden agenda, Luke felt his momentary stubbornness kick in. But he walked to the chair and he sat; he too had an agenda tonight.

The Emperor nodded to the laden table. "Eat."

The worst thing was Luke knew Palpatine was right; he should eat. Every soldier knew that. You eat when you can, you sleep when you can, because you never know when either will be taken away. Two days without food and already frail from his injuries, he could feel himself weakening physically if not mentally. He should eat. If the opportunity came to make an escape, he would be too weak to take it in another day. He should eat.

_Don't be stubborn. Eat._

"No." He wilted at his own obstinate will.

 

 

Palpatine merely glanced to the servers, who stepped forward to fill the smoky glass goblets with dark, ruby wine. He watched his Jedi glance momentarily at the food on the table then look resolutely away toward the fire in the hearth. He must be hungry by now, Palpatine knew. Vader had been instructed to feed him little, and the boy had not eaten at all since he arrived here. Nor would he; he wanted his Jedi to be left hungry, save at this table. Wanted this wild thing to learn to eat from its new Master's hand.

The boy had picked the wrong thing to fight over and he knew it, Palpatine could sense that much, but still he fought—couldn't help but do so. Strong-willed, like his father; stubborn. The strength which could be a weakness, with a little careful direction. The weakness which could be a strength, if he didn't hold it in check. Still, if all went to plan, this particular battle would be concluded tonight…or at least rendered worthless.

He nodded, and the servers and Luke's shadow-guards bowed and walked in silence from the room.

 

 

Luke caught again the tantalizing glimpse of freedom from the bright corridor beyond, where guards stood against the far wall, weapons drawn. _Far wall_ ; very far. Was it a corridor or another room?

Palpatine settled, drawing Luke's eyes and his mind back to the moment. "I'd like to know where my companions are," he said, voice steady.

The Emperor only gazed back in silence.

"I know that they're here, in the main Palace below," Luke said firmly. "I'd like to see them."

The Emperor remained still and this time Luke let the silence hang, prepared to wait it out.

Finally, Palpatine spoke. "Do you have any other glaring weaknesses you'd like to declare?"

Luke tilted his head, refusing to be drawn. "I'd like to see them."

 

 

Palpatine smiled just slightly at the battle lines being drawn; if the boy thought he could direct the conversation, then he was wrong. "They are traitors, which makes them your father's jurisdiction," he said, taking the discussion instantly back to where he intended.

"And who commands Vader?" the boy parried.

Palpatine ignored the challenge. "I am curious—you seem…uncomfortable acknowledging your father as such, child."

The boy held his silence for long seconds, gritting his teeth against the reply he so clearly wished to make, fighting to keep his mind on the goal. Palpatine let his expression change not a whit, but inside he leered at the boy's grinding jaw. Already this flaw tormented Skywalker, and Palpatine would lose no opportunity to twist that knife, to work that wound wider. Still, the boy held focus admirably.

"I would like to see my companions."

"Why?"

"To know that they're alright."

"You have the ability to do that without seeing them. It runs in your blood."

The boy's eyes hardened just slightly at that.

"You are…uncomfortable that they are here." Palpatine made this a statement rather than a question, leaving the boy to wonder whether the Emperor had read his mind, or simply stated the obvious. Either way, he said nothing. Instead he took the goblet of wine in his hand then, as if he felt that this was a patent fact that he should nevertheless clarify, he added, "Their freedom is for sale, of course. For a price."

"I very much doubt that—unless it serves your own ends."

"Heh. You judge me too harshly, Jedi."

"I don't think that's possible."

Palpatine only laughed, as if sharing a joke with an old friend. "I have found over the years that everything has a price."

 

 

Luke didn't miss the inference, but chose to ignore it. Instead he let the silence hang heavy for a long time as Palpatine gazed steadily at him…

Finally, with a low sigh of reluctant resignation, but knowing he could do nothing else, Luke asked, "The price is?"

"Well done, Jedi." The Emperor set down the goblet and leaned forward slightly, as if the game were finally afoot. "The price is…what…?"

He hesitated theatrically, mocking yellow eyes fixed on Luke, thin lips pulled back from stained teeth, as if this were a question he had only now given any thought to, though even knowing him as little as he did, Luke knew that wouldn't be the case. He leaned back in distaste; at having to deal so civilly with this creature—at being here at all.

In his excitement, the Sith didn't seem to notice. "What is…what is your little Princess worth?" He seemed to consider this for a moment, then, "Ah, but she is my exception. I think nothing will keep her from the executioner's block."

Luke's heart skip a beat. "You need them alive."

Palpatine smiled a death's-head grin. "I need only one of them to hold you, Jedi. And Leia Organa has been a thorn in my side for too long. Now that I have her, an example must be made—one that my enemies will remember."

Luke's chest constricted at the words, so casually uttered, as if Leia's life was some insignificant part of a much larger game.

"The Wookiee will go to the Kessel mines," the Sith added. "He has some strength, he may well last the year out. Calrissian will go with him, though I doubt he will do the same. The Corellian will stay here for now. Your father believes he will be enough to hold you."

"Vader knows nothing about me."

"He said you asked after the Corellian when you were injured," Palpatine said, implicating Vader in his plotting.

"Because I knew he was the only one who wasn't there."

"Still, you wanted him extricated from the Hutt gangster."

"I would have asked the same of any of them."

"Which is reason enough to believe the Corellian of worth to you." The Emperor shrugged elaborately. "If he is not, then you should say so now and I will have him executed tonight—he's of no value to me. Perhaps then I would have to fall back on your little Princess. Solo's death may just keep her head from the block. For now."

Luke lifted his hand, rubbing at the center of his temple against this provocation. What did he say? Did he say no, Han was worth nothing to him, and risk the Emperor carrying through his threat simply to call Luke's bluff? He knew he'd still have Leia and Chewie to control Luke…

With the stakes too high to feint, he said nothing at all. Palpatine steepled his fingers expectantly, his air one of assured amusement, and Luke could only grit his teeth in the face of these continual provocations and manipulations.

Still the Emperor gazed expectantly for long seconds. "So then—what is the Corellian's freedom worth to you?"

"Leia's first," Luke said, making the Emperor's eyes narrow.

 

 

"No—no, I have plans for your little Princess," Palpatine said deliberately, setting shields to hide his intent from the boy, though not too many or too deliberate; a direct lie could often be detected by the simple fact that it would be notably shielded. But then Palpatine seldom fell back on such vulgarities. In that moment, he very much longed to carry out the threat he was issuing; the girl was nothing but a malicious agitator, and would be a constant spur to Skywalker to keep on resisting Palpatine's will. It was this knowledge that Palpatine relied on now, along with his very genuine intention to remove her, one way or another; he allowed the boy to sense that much.

"You said all things could be bought." The boy knew that he was being led, but he also knew that the threat to Leia was very, very real.

Palpatine struggled to withhold the smallest of smiles from twitching the corners of his lips. How vulnerable they made him…and he knew this, yet still he defended them. "For a price. You cannot afford hers."

 

 

"So you have one." If Luke could gain her only a stay from execution, it would give him time to work out some plan to get out of here. Or buy Leia and Han the chance to do the same.

The Emperor's eyes turned to the huge fire in the grate as he considered and Luke found himself holding his breath in anticipation.

 

 

Palpatine stood and took a few steps toward the fire, his casual manner belying the importance he attached to this conversation. All future plans were decided by it, whichever way it went.

When he spoke, it was in quiet, considered tones. "Twelve weeks…yes, I think that is fair. Twelve weeks of your undivided attention. I would take no less, not for her."

He turned to his Jedi, who frowned for long seconds as he deciphered the offer…then his eyes opened wide, and Palpatine knew he understood. The boy almost refused outright…but he hesitated a fraction of a second—and Palpatine knew he had him.

"Twelve weeks of your compliance, Jedi. At the end of that time, I will let her go."

Skywalker tilted his head before laughing doubtfully, as if unable to believe he was even discussing this. Seeing that, Palpatine pushed on, wanting the deal done before his Jedi thought too long on it. If he gave him time to consider, he knew the boy would simply decide that a better option would be to begin his own escape attempts, and though Palpatine wasn't afraid the boy would escape, he didn't wish to be put into direct contention with him just yet.

He had to curtail such thoughts now; ensure that Skywalker would remain reasonably amenable in the coming weeks. Already he could see resentment at his incarceration settling into the boy's features; another day or so and it would poison his mind, making him unreachable. He would dig his heels in and force a confrontation out of nothing more than his own innate stubbornness. That would come eventually anyway, Palpatine knew, but he didn't want it yet, with so many precedents and practices still to lay in place; compulsions to be hidden within conventions, influence within routine.

Some mutually binding contract had to be established, a way to tie Skywalker down with openly agreed terms on both sides. An obligation that his new Jedi, still bound by those high moral principles, would hold to once he had agreed.

Much as he would like to execute the troublesome ex-senator and so lop off one of the Rebellion's heads, this would gain him far more in the long run. But if the boy didn't yield, then yes, he would carry through on his present threat—having made it he couldn't afford not to—and there were other alternatives. Though this was the most advantageous, if all went to plan.

But he needed the boy to agree to this now. And to do that, he needed to stop him looking at the greater picture and instead become mired in the details. "I will let her go. Anywhere she chooses, with my guarantee of safe passage."

"Your guarantee is worth nothing," the Jedi countered. But he didn't refuse the deal.

"My word—as a Sith."

 

 

"That's worth even less." Luke was instantly aware of the insult he had just issued. Tellingly, Palpatine seemed not in the least offended.

"Then what do you suggest, Jedi?"

Luke paused, aware on some level that he was being railroaded, but willing to talk at this point, curious as to what he could achieve. If the deal was good enough, then perhaps he should consider it. Years of trading in the deep desert had taught him to start high and be bartered down.

Aware of this, of the outrageous nature of what he was about to ask—and of the fact that he had nothing to lose at this point—he spoke out. "Let them go now, all of them. Let them all go, and I'll stay. For twelve weeks."

 

 

Palpatine laughed out loud at this—but he kept the negotiation going; established that all-important precedent. "Out of the question. Do I look like a fool?"

It had to seem like the agreement was of the boy's choosing as much as Palpatine's. If it was Skywalker who placed the deal on the table now, then he would only have himself to blame later…

 

 

Luke kept his expression solemn. "I give you my word—as a Jedi."

"And I should take that?" Palpatine said, incredulous. "When you allow me no such recognition?"

"My word," Luke repeated against this.

The Emperor's eyes narrowed and he turned away, his back to Luke now. After long seconds, he spoke out. "I will not give you all four. One must stay."

"Not Leia." Luke's voice was firm.

"The Corellian," Palpatine said with equal resolve.

Luke paused; it still gave Palpatine a lever to control him…but to have the others gone, now—he hadn't hoped to gain even close to this much. "How will I know they're safe?"

"You are a Jedi; of course you will know."

Luke remained silent, eyes wary, and Palpatine shrugged, dismissive. "I am sure you would have no compunction about dissolving the agreement, if you believed it broken."

"What exactly is the agreement?" Luke said, drawn in further in spite of himself, with so much now in the pot.

"I would simply like to continue our talks." The Emperor was casually dismissive, as if he were asking for nothing at all. "And I would like your word—not as a Jedi, not as a soldier, but _your word_ —that you will do the same. That you will remain here for the agreed twelve weeks without contention. Willingly; no attempts to escape, no premeditated disobedience. No obstruction or belligerence. A civilized dialogue…by both parties."

"Just that," Luke said dryly.

"Just that."

 

 

Palpatine watched as the boy fell to silence, and forced himself to do the same, to act as if this were unimportant to him.

"Twelve weeks is a long time."

He could sense the boy considering, weighing up the advantages against the drawbacks.

"To buy three lives? I think it very cheap."

"But clearly you don't, or you would have pushed for more," Skywalker said in a moment of wary clarity.

Uneasy at this, Palpatine only shrugged, unwilling to be forced to validate his offer. "How is it any different than what we are doing right now, Jedi? I have told you, I merely wish to maintain a dialogue. In order to do that, I am willing to offer this truce; a gesture of goodwill."

"I don't believe you'd do anything that wasn't to your advantage. The deal is more than biased in your favor."

"But then I hold all the cards."

"Except the one that matters," the youth held pointedly.

"Even that is in my hands."

"But you don't control it."

Palpatine laughed aloud at that. "No one will control you, Jedi, unless you choose to allow it. I am buying your attention, not your will. And even that only for twelve weeks."

Still the boy hesitated, and Palpatine pushed just a little further. "Have you so little faith in your own resolve, that you think you could be so easily swayed?"

He chose not to answer that. "At the end of that time?"

Palpatine smiled inwardly, knowing he had him! "The agreement is fulfilled; we owe each other nothing more."

Twelve weeks would be more than enough. More than enough to bind the boy to him, to prize open all those weaknesses and exploit them. To gain a Sith.

He stepped close for the first time, towering over the seated youth. "Are you afraid?"

"Not of you." The boy held his gaze, unflinching, though he knew the lie; he would be stupid not to be.

Palpatine leered, wondering if Skywalker realized the depth of the slip in his own words, his gaze never leaving the boy's. In silence, he held out his hand…

 

 

The pressure bearing down on Luke in that moment felt like it was crushing the air from his lungs. Should he do this? It bought him so much…but was the price too high?

Master Yoda had known they would be a weakness. Had warned him even before he left Dagobah to let his friends go. Had actually asked that he sacrifice them to the greater cause. Did he know Luke so little? Luke shook his head slightly in consideration…because he couldn't abandon them then, and he couldn't do it now. Was incapable of it; it was against his very nature to do so. He had lost so much, had so much ripped away from him, had willingly given so much more… But he couldn't do this. He couldn't desert those he held so close.

He knew— _knew_ that this would cost him dear…

The Emperor held his hand steady; pallid, deathly-white, its long, ridged nails curved like claws—and all Luke could see was that hand about Leia's neck, tightening…

And he couldn't hold out against that.

His heart beat hard against his ribs, but he knew he was committed; had been from the moment he left Dagobah, in truth.

Still, when he took the old man's hand in silent agreement he felt an involuntary shiver slice down his spine and he jolted just slightly against the turmoil which shocked through the Force—as if everything had forcibly inverted, twisting about and within itself in a convulsive spasm. Reflex jerked his hand back but the Sith kept a solid, unyielding hold, his relentless grip cold as the grave.

"We have a pact, Jedi," he said gravely, holding Luke firm for long seconds, and releasing him only grudgingly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

**CHAPTER SEVEN **

 

 

 

Luke paced his opulent prison uneasily, hardly aware of the guard at the door anymore, waiting the arrival of his visitor with equal parts trepidation and enthusiasm.

The bad-tempered redhead had spent the morning guarding him today, sitting on one of the chairs at the windows rather than standing by the door, her hard eyes fixing on him every time he so much as moved. Finally she'd ordered a replacement at midday when summoned by Palpatine, returning briefly to tell him that his request of the previous evening—to see his companion—had been allowed by the Emperor.

And Luke had again sensed that crosscurrent, that whisper in the Force about her, hidden completely when she was with the Emperor, smothered by that all-encompassing shroud of Darkness. But here, alone. some barely discernable focus traced the edge of his awareness, so light as to be almost imperceptible.

"What are you?" he'd asked at last, knowing that she'd understand the question.

"Huh, wouldn't you like to know," she'd huffed, lifting her chin.

He'd tried setting his head on one side, expression open. "Yes. You're not a Jedi…or Sith."

"You think that puts me beneath you?" she'd challenged, green eyes ablaze.

"You appear to be the one holding the gun."

"That's right, and don't you forget it."

He'd held her gaze steadily, the slight smile staying on his lips, and she'd glanced away, seeming suddenly embarrassed at the needless threat.

"I'll get your visitor," she'd muttered, leaving Luke to stare at the door as it cycled closed, no longer noticing the stony-faced guards who stood to either side of it.

 

 

 

 

It was now mid-afternoon and no one else had been back to the room. And patience wasn't exactly one of Luke's strong suits.

He sat on the arm of the chair gazing out into the distant city, rubbing his temples against the constant headache he'd had for the last three days. At first, he'd tried to dismiss it as Coruscant—that it was simply something about the planet that was causing it, some barometric pressure—but slowly he'd come to recognize that it intensified with proximity to Palpatine, or with his own use of the Force, when the pressure closed in about him like a wavefront, constricting about his mind with massive, focused pressure.

 _Focused_ ; as a conscious act. A pointed discouragement from the Emperor against using the Force. Or perhaps simply a method of knowing when he did? Though he'd felt no such disturbance from his fath… from Vader.

The truth was he had absolutely no idea…and that was the real problem; neither Ben nor Yoda had ever mentioned it, or anything else of real substance about the Dark side, save to avoid it at all costs, which seemed pretty academic here, Luke reflected wryly. And that left him guessing, in a place where guesswork was a dangerous thing. Left him uncertain, in a situation where he knew that confidence in one's convictions was everything.

He sighed, rubbing his closed eyes so hard he saw sparks in his vision—anything to alleviate the pressure. He felt tired and drawn, having shocked awake in the early hours just before dawn, absolutely sure in that moment that someone had shouted out his name. Wide awake, he'd glanced about the dark shadows of the cavernous, unfamiliar room searching for the source. But of course there'd been nothing there, only the lingering shadows of some intense nightmare, lost to him now.

Unable to settle again, he'd risen and dressed to stand alone in the room for once before the tall thick transparisteel windows and watch the sun rise, desperately hungry.

Meditation was becoming difficult, the jarring pressure weighing down on him dulling mind and senses both and leaving him uneasy and frustrated. Eventually he'd stopped trying, instead laying back on the cold marble floor, its cool against the healing scar on his back comforting through the fine silk of his slate gray shirt, his knees pulled up as he gazed at the distant, heavily carved and coffered ceiling, contemplating how many places there were to hide surveillance lenses up there and wondering if there were any dead-spots in the room. Wondering what his observers were thinking of his bizarre behavior right now.

Wondering how he was going to explain the deal he'd made to his friends. How he was going to explain to Han that he had to remain. Questioning whether he should back out now while he still could, knowing that was what they would tell him to do.

Were they right?

Eventually the doors had cycled open and the redhead had strode in, watching him with raised eyebrows where he lay on the cool floor, clearly thinking him completely insane.

Luke had scrabbled up quickly. "I was… ah, your opinion of me can't get any worse, anyway," he'd reasoned aloud, bringing the slightest hint of an amused smile to her lips a she'd turned away to sit on the chair before the windows.

It was late afternoon when the doors finally grated open with the release of multiple bolts. Eight stormtroopers lock-stepped into the room, the first Luke had seen since arriving here. They about-turned smartly and marched out to leave a bound and wary Han Solo standing alone before the closing doors.

"Han!" Luke launched forward, in that moment so pleased to see his friend that all his guilty misgivings were forgotten.

 

 

"Luke—Kid!" Han practically yelped the words, shocked once by seeing the kid in one piece, and again by his surroundings. He stepped forward, but was forced to stop uneasily as he lifted his still-bound hands before him, the reality of their situation quickly and effectively reminded.

Refusing to be cowed, he glanced around the room. "Wow. Wanna swap? I think my room's about as big as that bed and my bunk consists of a solid ridge coming out of the wall with a 'fresher built into the end of it."

"Nice," the kid said, falling easily back into their familiar banter. "Classy."

"And convenient," Han quipped. "Don't need to go too far in the middle of the night."

Luke nodded, grinning. "Again, a good point."

"I thought so. Could do with…hey, your hand!" Han belatedly realized that Luke was resting his right hand in his left, cradling it subconsciously. The kid looked down, his voice distant.

"Yeah, they…replaced it." He held it up for inspection, moving his fingers awkwardly as Han studied the prosthetic.

He held back from asking the obvious— _why_ had they fixed it—and if the kid knew, he didn't offer. "Feel weird?" he prompted instead, still staring at the hand; it was a perfect replica, minutely detailed—a very expensive piece of kit.

Luke only shrugged uneasily, clearly not wanting to talk about this now.

Taking the hint, Han glanced around again. "I thought I was coming to see Palpatine, considering the setting. Didn't expect to see you here."

The unspoken question made Luke's smile drop. "Maybe he thinks he can buy me…"

Han nodded, glancing about; seemed reasonable—it would probably explain the hand, too. And the kid's clothes, which made even Lando seem poverty-stricken by comparison.

His next question shocked Luke, though he hadn't meant it to. "Can he?"

"No!" Luke upheld, visibly hurt at Han's words.

"Just…" Han paused, not sure why he'd even bothered to ask, aware of how much he'd just hurt the kid. "Sorry. I dunno…"

Luke stared at the floor and Han shifted uneasily a moment before moving the conversation on. "Have you seen Chewie and Leia?"

"No, haven't you?" There was instant concern in Luke's voice.

"No, they split us up. Different cells. Hollered myself hoarse but I think the cells are soundproof."

"They're here somewhere. But I…" Kid paused, suddenly guilty.

Han scowled. "Luke?"

Luke hesitated, his every movement that of someone looking to get something over with. "I…made a deal. With Palpatine. That in return…"

That was as far as he got.

"You made a _deal_? With _Palpatine_! What…" Words failed Han for a second—but just for a second. "Kid, he's not gonna stick to any deal."

Luke shook his head, rushing to explain. "He has to fulfill his part of the deal first, or it's null and void. Han, I had to."

" _Had_ to? What the hell does that mean? You just told me he couldn't buy you, and now you're saying…"

"Han, listen...please—"The kid sounded like he was trying to validate his actions as much to himself as to Han. "Palpatine agreed to release everyone except one person, in exchange for my staying."

"Staying?" Some of the fire went out of Han's eyes at the realization of what Luke had done, but he was still seething.

"For twelve weeks. I stay here for twelve weeks."

"And then what? You think he's gonna just let you go?"

"No. But he wasn't going to do that anyway," Kid said wryly.

Han softened a little at that, knowing that the kid had no real choice; that he'd tried to make the best out of a raw deal in a bad situation. Gain something out of nothing. "I dunno. Twelve weeks is a long time, Luke."

 

 

Luke remained silent for long moments. Only now, when someone else voiced that fear, was he becoming aware of just how long it really was.

The thought that Luke had been dreading finally occurred to Han. "Who stays?"

Luke didn't look up, unable in that moment to meet Han's eye, ashamed of the fact that the decision had been made, that Luke had agreed. Wishing—hoping that his friend would…

"I'll stay," Han said firmly, meaning it.

The relief escaped Luke in a quiet sigh and he blinked slowly, thankful for Han's good heart. He nodded gently, still wracked with guilt, unable to speak in that moment.

Probably realizing he'd made an impossible decision for his friend, Han reached out to put a reassuring hand on Luke's shoulder, his other having to follow somewhat comically because of the binders.

"Hey, it'll be just like old times, huh? Remember that crappy dead-end planet we had to hang around on? The one where we had the cook-outs every night 'cos your stupid friend was five days late with that detonator shipment?"

Luke could only laugh at that. "You make it sound so rosy," he said dryly.

"Well, y'know…it wouldn't have been. But we made it okay. Me and you. We're a good team." Suddenly very embarrassed at his momentary camaraderie, Han made light again. "And besides, I'm charging the Rebellion for this. Hourly rate. And after the first ten hours, I'm on overtime. Plus danger money."

Luke smiled. "You can bill me."

"Yeah, like you got that kinda currency," Han dismissed easily, glancing around again. "But see that painting there? If we take that with us when we leave, I'll call it even."

Luke glanced at the huge painting of a night battle under moons and stars, realizing that he too vaguely recognized it—which meant it really must be incredibly well known.

"Fine," he said, judging the size of the massive canvas, about twice his height and four times that length. "But you're carrying it."

 

 

 

 

 

 

"We need a comlink," Leia said, breathless from running, mind still swimming at the outrageous events of the day.

"We need a _ship_ ," Lando corrected, glancing meaningfully back to the spaceport as they huddled back into the shadows of the side street.

"If you get me a comlink, I can get us a ship," Leia said.

Lando turned back to her. "Hard as I find it to refuse those big brown eyes, I'd like to point out that in order to get us a comlink, I'm gonna have to steal it, and if I'm going to steal a comlink to get us a ride, I may as well just steal a ship, right?"

He glanced up at Chewie for support and the Wookiee keened, his nodding head indicting that it made perfect sense to him.

"Stealing a comlink and stealing a ship are _not_ the same thing," Leia maintained.

"I beg to differ. If someone's fool enough to leave a factory-standard locking system on a valuable item—" Lando began, but Leia cut him off.

"Just get a comlink, okay?"

Lando looked at her for long seconds, clearly sure he was right… "Fine," he said at last. "Chewie?"

They disappeared from sight and Leia was left to draw back into the shadows of the busy Cat Dato Spaceport, glancing around nervously, expecting to see that familiar white armor any second.  
Worrying where Han and Luke were…

She, Lando and Chewie had been taken from their cells and grouped together into a prison transport at some point in the early hours of the morning. Each relieved to see the other, their excited whispers had ceased as they tried to listen to the stormtroopers speaking to the pilots outside.

It had become obvious pretty quickly that they were heading on a long trip—

"Twenty-four days," Leia had whispered.

"Twenty-four days! That can't be right," Lando murmured, frowning. "Maybe that's the round trip?"

Chewie whuffed a reply—the first time Leia ever remembered his doing anything quietly—and Lando nodded knowingly.

"Kessel's about that from here, in this small transport," he translated, voice tight with trepidation.

Leia frowned at the mention of the Emperor's favored gulag, eyes searching the stormtroopers at the bottom of the ship's ramp. Why take them to Kessel? She'd expected a very public execution designed to clarify for all that there was no escaping Imperial justice. Why this? Disappearing off the face of the galaxy to a prison planet in the back of beyond?

Any further discussion had been cut short by the arrival of eight stormtroopers in the hold, all of whom appeared about as happy to be making this trip as Leia was.

Twelve hours later they'd made a stop off in what turned out to be Cat Dato Spaceport on Neimoidia, where the stormtroopers watching them had risen and walked casually down the ramp to stretch their legs, and to speak to another two who were waiting, a Bothan prisoner in tow—and Leia decided it was all the opportunity she needed.

"Chewie… "

Although they were the only prisoners there, several empty rows of hard seats in front of and behind them, they had been sat in line on a single row, an unbelievable opportunity. Leia was in the center, held sitting by a long, meaty restraint bar which ran through holders in the arms of their row of seats, her and everyone else's wrist binders tethered by threading the same bar through them, effectively tying their hands and holding them seated at the same time.

There was no way Leia could have broken her own binders, nor Chewie his—which were considerably thicker—but Leia had spent the last four hours wondering whether Chewie could break the metal cord on her human-scaled binders, and trying to communicate that fact to him with elbow nudges and meaningful glances.

He reached over now, able to slide his own binders along the continuous bar to the edge of his seat as she did the same with hers. Taking her binder cable in his huge hands he heaved it apart, bulky muscles knotting to massive lumps in his powerful arms…

It took four attempts before it sheared away, making Chewie's own binders clatter noisily against the bar as they pulled taut. Everyone froze, glancing nervously at the ramp…

Hands now free to lift above her head, Leia had been able to shimmy like a limbo dancer beneath the bar at her lap, struggling to squeeze her shoulders past and turning her head to one side as she nimbly slipped free.

She headed immediately for the cockpit, knowing the two pilots were likely armed but preferring her chances against them rather than against the stormtroopers at the bottom of the ramp.

 

 

Lando, who had watched all this with a mix of fascination and surprise, was left to glance up to Chewie… It took seconds to get his priorities in order. "D'you think she'd do that shimmy thing again if I asked her nicely?" he said, making the Wookiee grin.

Moments later when the arm catches which held the long bar in place released on some automated system, enabling Lando and Chewie to step free and slide their own binders off as quietly as possible.

Lando headed to the cockpit to give the Princess a quick prompt, and as she'd followed him out she'd passed Chewie, and dropped one of the two blaster she was holding into his massive hands.

"Hey, don't I get one?" Lando whispered.

"Sure, there's ten of them with the stormtroopers at the base of the ramp—help yourself," Leia nodded dryly, edging forward.

It had been no contest at all. No one was expecting them to be free, let alone armed, and by the time they'd stood back up from crouching down on the ramp, the only one left standing was the Bothan prisoner.

Lando fumbled on one of the stormtroopers for the keycard to their binders, sliding it over his own before throwing it to Leia, who released the broken remains of her binders before turning to Chewie.

"Quickly," Leia ordered. "There'll be reinforcements on the way." They'd been pretty fast, but hardly quiet.

Lando had bobbed down again to help himself to a blaster, and when he he stood he met the wide eyes of the shocked Bothan prisoner, its fur rippling every which way as proof of its confusion.

"Your lucky day, pal," Lando said with a wink, making Leia roll her eyes as she handed the keycard to the Bothan.

"Lando, we're leaving," she prompted, as they set off out of the bay to lose themselves in the bustle of the spaceport, leaving the Bothan staring after them, open-mouthed, still holding the keycard.

 

 

Leia was still stood in the street,aware that she probably looked out of placce in padded cold-weather gear on the dry, arid planet, when Lando stepped silently up behind her, making her jump.

"One comlink, sweetheart."

" _Don't_ call me that," she scalded, thoughts instantly turning to Han as she tried to concentrate on re-tuning the comlink. "This is nine-nine-two-zero-five, I need immediate evac, repeat, _immediate_ evac. Contact me on this channel as soon as possible."

She shut down the channel and turned to Lando's expectant eyes.

"What do we do now?" he asked.

"We wait," she replied simply.

Lando frowned. "For how long?"

The comlink buzzed in Leia's hand and she arched perfect eyebrows at him. "Not too long."

They spent the afternoon sitting quietly in some smoky dive nursing drinks which Lando had bought, Leia's powerful enough that it actually seemed to be evaporating in the glass, thus saving her the trouble of explaining why she wasn't drinking it. Early evening was giving way to night in the Lucky Dug Cantina in Cat Dato spaceport. It was hot and it was gritty, which was very much what she felt like herself right now as she waited for their ride to turn up, hesitantly contemplating voicing her worries.

The band started up with relentless gusto and she glanced over before turning back to the sabacc game unfolding before her. Lando was playing—where he'd gotten the credits from she didn't want to ask; probably the same reluctant donor as their comlink.

Leia hunched over to rest her chin on her fist, watching Lando bet high, prompting everyone to throw in their cards in frustrated response. Two of the players rose to leave the table despite Lando's protestations, likely having seen they were about o get fleeced by a pro.

He should have played Luke some time; everyone said Luke was a natural at sabacc. Even Han wouldn't play him anymore

 _"Touched by 'The Lady',"_ they said; Lady Luck.

She laughed sourly into her warm drink…but apparently not. Not when it mattered.

"Did you ever…talk to Luke, Lando?" she asked as casually as she was able.

Lando glanced up from rearranging the new chip-cards in his hand. "Luke? No, didn't really get a chance. Seemed a nice kid, though."

"He is." She nodded slowly. "He is…"

"Sure chooses his enemies though," Lando added distantly, stacking his credits one-handed.

Leia nodded, lost in thought… "Did…Vader ever mention him to you?"

"Vader?" That turned Lando's head, his voice uneasy now, uncomfortable with the subject. "No, not really. Just to say that he wanted him back—and that Skywalker'd come to Bespin if you three were there."

Leia set her head on one side, aware that Chewie had turned to follow this conversation. "That he wanted him _back_?" she emphasized, wishing to be sure.

Aware of her seriousness, Lando considered, searching his memory. "That it was _time for him_ to come back," he corrected, uncertain what she was getting at. "Why?"

Leia shook her head quickly, turning away. "Nothing. No reason."

Chewie howled a long sentence, turning Lando's head.

"He wants to know, are we…heading back for them?" Lando translated, clearly not sure he'd like the answer either way.

"As soon as we can," Leia confirmed, looking to Chewie now. "But we need backup first—and a plan."

"Not wanting to put a damper on your fun, but remember you said the nice Imperial pilot told you Han'd be out soon enough."

"And you should always believe what stormtroopers tell you," Leia scorned. "And anyway, what about Luke?"

Whilst in the cockpit, the first pilot's blaster a reassuring weight in her hands, Leia had risked a few moments to quiz the second as he keyed the release for the restraints in the main hold. "The two men who came in with us, why aren't they on the transport?"

"Who?"

"The Corellian—where is he?"

The man's eyes stayed on the blaster. "He's in the Palace—the Commander's keeping him there, I heard."

"Why?"

"I don't know." He'd leaned back as Leia jammed the blaster forward in silent encouragement. "I don't! I'm not even supposed to know that! They wanted…they needed him for something, I don't know what. They were gonna release him, I think—they were gonna release him pretty soon."

"And the other, what about the other prisoner?"

"Other?" The pilot frowned, unsure. "There's no…there was no other."

"Luke Skywalker!" Leia had said through gritted teeth.

The man only shook his head, eyes on the snout of the blaster.

"He came in on the shuttle with us! He was on a medi-sled."

"There was no…" The man's confusion was replaced by realization. "Oh. Yeah, I _bet_ you'd like to get your hands on him." There was something in the way he said it—some kind of wry amusement, though he'd obviously misunderstood her . "Chalk that one up to experience," the pilot had said at last, making her frown.

Then Lando had opened the cockpit door, leaning warily in. "Leia, time to move. Chewie's getting kinda antsy out here."

When she still didn't move, staring at the pilot, Lando had taken her arm, to pull her gently back as he prompted, "… Kinda in a rush here…?"

The strident buzz of her comlink pulled her back to the moment and the dubious surroundings of the Lucky Dug as she snatched for it. "Nine-nine-two-oh-five," she said simply; open comm channels weren't for names.

"Go to docking bay forty-two, South Pitch," came the reply. "We'll make contact there."

"On our way," Leia said, glancing to the others. "Let's move."

She rose, finally sure what she would say when she got back to Alliance Command, which was, quite simply, nothing.

It was all a lie of course. It had to be. She wasn't stupid. It was all lies to undermine Luke, and she wouldn't say a word. She wouldn't play their games, whether she understood them or not. They had wasted their time, and when she got Luke out of there, she'd tell him all about it and they'd laugh at the outrageous claims. They'd chosen the wrong dolt if they were hoping she'd even consider selling Luke out just on their word.

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

** CHAPTER EIGHT **

 

 

 

It was amazing how quickly routines were established. By nightfall Luke was sitting patiently, waiting for Palpatine to arrive. Waiting for the redhead to come in and announce it.

Like clockwork the doors cycled through their staged lock release, Luke counting how many bolts there were for the first time. She walked in with a face like thunder, and he smiled into those cold eyes. "Hey, Red."

"The…" She floundered, momentarily taken off-guard, but quickly found her stride again. "The Emperor commands your presence."

"Pretty much figured that," Luke said, setting forward, unsure why he was doing this but enjoying setting her off-balance all the same, his mood still light from seeing Han.

"And _don't_ call me Red," she clipped, dropping into pace as he passed her, two Royal Guard falling in behind them.

"How about Rusty?" he teased quietly as they walked. "I gotta call you something and you won't tell me your name, so take your pick."

"I'm _Commander_ Jade," she said haughtily, eyes straight ahead.

Luke waited until he was almost at the far door to preclude any comeback from her. "Nah… I think I like Red better."

Then he was through and she dropped back, remaining near the door, and Luke cautioned himself to concentrate; this was no longer a game.

Palpatine's eyes were dangerously narrowed as Luke entered the room and turned to him, his stare cold and ominous. Directed not at Luke but at Jade, who bowed deeply, some undercurrent of apprehension in her sense now.

Palpatine remained staring at the woman as she straightened, her eyes to the floor so that Luke, aware that he had caused this and feeling suddenly protective even of her, spoke out.

"Excellency," he acknowledged as he'd heard others do, bringing the Emperor's baleful yellow eyes to him.

The Sith Emperor stared, and for the first time, Luke recognized his individual accent in the Force, as if he had neglected in that instant to hide it completely. It roiled in fury at the woman, some sense of possessive ownership being infringed. Then it was gone, hidden away completely as he too brought his attention to the moment.

 

 

Palpatine turned and walked slowly to his chair, taking the time to regain equilibrium before sitting and looking to the boy.

"Sit," he commanded simply. And the boy did—as easily as that. Perhaps it would be no struggle after all, to gain his obedience.

"You spoke with your companion today?" Palpatine said.

"Yes, " the boy replied. Then, because he was uncertain what else to say, "Thank you."

Palpatine kept his eyes steady on the Jedi, but was pleased.

 

 

"I would...like to see the others, if I may?" Luke was wary, unsure if Palpatine would want something in return.

"Others?"

"Leia and Chewie."

"They are gone, Jedi." There was a self-congratulatory note mixed in with the Emperor's politely feigned confusion.

"Gone?" Luke asked, alarm giving his voice volume.

"Of course—that was the agreement. That you would stay for twelve weeks if they were let free. They set out to Neimoidia before dawn this morning and chose to leave the transport at Cat Dato Spaceport. They were not followed, as we agreed, so I have no information as to where they are now. But I'm sure your little Princess is already…"

"This morning!" It was a stupid thing to say in the face of this torrent of information, but Luke was genuinely surprised that they were gone—that he hadn't realized that they had been taken.

He reached out now with the Force, his urgency slicing so easily through the murky susurration which clouded about him, but was unable to find any trace of Leia. A memory hit him in that instant; of waking in the early hours of the morning, sure that someone had called out his name. Not in fear, just…realization. It must have been Leia, she must have recognized they were being separated and thought of him in that moment.

Luke chided himself for not recognizing it was her at the time or realizing they were gone, angry at his own lack of vigilance, determined that it wouldn't happen again. He'd allowed this static fog of Darkness to hold his own abilities in check, permitted it free reign when he should have been aware.

Not again—that lesson was learnt.

Palpatine's words broke into this rush of thoughts.

"We had an agreement, Jedi. I have fulfilled my part of the bargain willingly, without delay and to the letter. I expect no less from you."

And suddenly Luke realized what Palpatine had done—that he had pushed the deal through, bringing it into immediate existence…effectively tying Luke in before he'd really had time to consider its implications.

Now he was committed—he had given his word.

 

 

Palpatine watched the rush of anticipated thoughts and realizations cross the boy's face; watched him search for some way out and recognize that there was none. Before the boy's reactions had time to spill over into anger he spoke out, gravelly voice neutral and calm. "Eat."

This brought the boy's eyes up to his own and again, Palpatine watched the run of considerations play across his face as he took everything into account—the agreement to stay without contention, his own hunger, the fact that he was trapped here by his own hand now…

Whether to honor the agreement at all…

All these considerations shifted through his mind, the moment stretching…

Finally Skywalker reached out, took a single small flatbread from the warm serving dish and put it on his plate.

Palpatine allowed his own expression to change not a whit. Instead, he nodded to the servers, who filled the goblets with wine, bowed and left, the Royal Guards who had flanked Luke doing the same. He let the silence hang for a long time, wondering if his Jedi would feel compelled to speak. Skywalker remained silent though, staring steadfastly at the table ahead of him, eyes and thoughts distant.

The stillness stretched into minutes, in which neither moved.

Finally, Palpatine spoke out. "Placing food on your plate does not constitute eating, Jedi."

The boy looked up as if startled from private thoughts. He looked back down at his plate for several seconds…then broke off a corner of the flatbread and ate it, neither reluctant nor resigned.

Palpatine smiled, settling; that fight was broken now. Whether his Jedi ate further tonight was irrelevant and they both knew it. There was a war to be fought, a battle at a time.

And Palpatine had scored a resounding victory within minutes of meeting, today.

"It's perhaps better that they are gone," he offered at last, keeping any trace of triumph from his voice. "They were a leash about your neck, tying you down, holding you back. Your pretty little Princess was using you. Using you to fight battles she could not."

"You don't know anything about her," the boy said, offended.

"On the contrary, I know her very well. Long before she was forced to fall back on her blindly devoted Rebel band to protect her, she was a Senator here on ImperialCenter. She was aggressively self-serving even then. Know your enemies, Jedi," he lectured.

"And your friends?"

Palpatine only smiled, dismissive. "You have no friends, Jedi. It is time you learned that. Only those who would use you, in some way or another. Only your peers can be trusted—only they do not need your abilities."

"Leia needed nothing from me."

"Of course she did," he held easily. "Her petty little Rebellion was nothing before you arrived. What little it was would have been wiped out at Yavin. They were less threat to my Empire than a flea on a bantha. But give them a Jedi—someone who could pose a real threat, someone whom the disaffected of the whole galaxy could rally around—and they became a force to be reckoned with. That is why she held you there."

"I stayed by choice."

"Yes, of course you did," Palpatine smiled indulgently. "The question is, why? I'm sure she went out of her way to encourage you to do so. Princesses do not generally consort with common pilots, my friend. Or did you not notice that? How many other pilots did she know by name? She needed you and she knew it. She needed control of you, just as Kenobi did."

"She didn't even know about my abilities."

"Are you sure? You traveled with Master Kenobi, you wore a lightsaber. I'm sure you must have provided all kinds of subtle signs. What conclusions was she supposed to draw? Give her some credit, Jedi. Enough to see what you were…what you could be worth to her."

"You're wrong." The boy's voice dropped low with anger at the accusation.

"It is the truth," Palpatine said in a tone that broached no argument. "All beings seek only to control you, the power that you hold. Your Jedi teachers, your precious Rebellion… and your little Princess whom you so wanted to save." Palpatine bent his head to one side, his manner gentle but his eyes hard. "Only they clothe their control in empty compassion and feigned friendship and outright lies."

Skywalker shook his head, but couldn't find his voice.

"I tell you this, Jedi, and it is a truth; your trusted allies, your precious Princess…they will all turn on you. She will hold a gun to your head and _long_ to pull the trigger."

"No."

"She will plot your destruction with every bit as much mercenary zeal as she now plots mine. You were _nothing_ to her save an opportunity to be used, fodder to her cause. The moment she realizes that she no longer controls her tame Jedi, she will want to destroy it."

"You're lying!"

"And your _teacher_ ," Palpatine spat the last with mocking derision, "didn't he leave you to rot in the desert until he realized I would find you, then drag you into his conspiracies with lies and half-truths, only ever enough information to control and manipulate?"

"And you?" the boy challenged.

The Emperor sat back; paused a moment to give his Jedi mental and physical space, that it could better separate Palpatine from his accusations of betrayal by others. "I offer you understanding. As I understand your father. You and he are not so very different."

The boy balked at this, denial shaping his features.

Palpatine pushed on regardless, his grating voice absolute and broaching no argument, beginning to bind Skywalker to him. "Yes; you are the same line. I understand that as no one else can. No one. What it requires of you every moment to contain the power you have finally begun to unleash. What it has already cost you…the demands you know will come."

"We are nothing alike," Skywalker hissed passionately. " _Nothing_!"

"Then why are you alive, Jedi? Why are you not dead, like so many before you? Why would I bother to be here now, speaking these words? If you were any other Jedi I assure you I would have killed you already... But I see what you willfully refuse to acknowledge. I see what you are."

He let this moment hang for long seconds, eyes locking his Jedi's to hold him in uneasy anticipation before he leaned forward…

"Darkness recognizes its own."

He saw the boy recoil at this, eyes widening, and knew he had scored a blow.

"I am not my father," the boy managed at last, voice almost lost in the emotion.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm very sure," Skywalker's words cut across the Emperor's, his voice steel, but Palpatine sensed him waver in the Force, the flicker of doubt that could not be so easily hidden.

So he remained still in mock consideration for a long time to give the boy time to think on his reply, frowning as he stared at Skywalker, who held his searching gaze without flinching…visibly.

"Do you truly hate him?" Palpatine asked at last. "Or do you hate what you know he will make you become?"

"He hasn't made me become anything."

"But the realization of what you are…"

"I'm the sum of _my own_ life. Vader doesn't feature in that."

"Oh, but he does. Whether by his presence or his absence."

"Not nearly as much as you believe," Skywalker maintained.

"But far more than you think." Again Palpatine paused. "Do you believe in destiny, Jedi?"

"No," the boy said firmly.

"And yet you acknowledge precognition—you are yourself capable of this."

"The future is undecided. It changes constantly according to the actions of the present. I see that."

"Some things are fluid," Palpatine allowed. "But some are locked in. Inescapable."

"Nothing is inevitable."

"Is that what you believe…or what you hope?"

"It's what I was taught."

"And of course, you believe everything that you were taught," Palpatine mocked derisively. "Have you learned nothing here?"

"I have learned a great deal," the boy said pointedly.

Palpatine only smiled, shaking his head in amusement. "You are _so adamant_. I can teach you more than Kenobi ever could have. He was a fool and he was willfully blind. And you were naïve to listen to him."

Skywalker's expression was guarded, but Palpatine could sense his affront, so he pushed the provocation.

"You have heard one person's point of view and now hold it as canon. Yet he was an old man who had sat and rotted alone in the desert for two decades, completely removed from the affairs of his kind. The Jedi were killed in their hundreds and he did _nothing_ to help them—children and younglings, padawans and Masters. Never once did he return to aide in the fight. Are you sure he spoke for the Jedi at all? You accept his word as absolute but you can never truly know. At best, your teaching is flawed in its narrowness…at worst, everything he taught you was nothing more than the petty ranting of a senile fool."

 

 

Luke shook his head, despite everything still incensed at the desecration Palpatine rained down on Kenobi. "He stayed to help me, to protect me."

The Sith lifted his eyebrows. "And yet when it finally mattered, he left you alone."

"Not alone. Master Y…" Luke stopped— But it was far too late.

Palpatine rose in surprise. "Master Yoda?"

Luke's heart skipped and his stomach knotted at this involuntary betrayal, a momentary slip, a lesson hard learned.

"Master Yoda," the Sith repeated more slowly, staring at Luke as if everything was finally falling into place. " _There_ is your teacher when Kenobi was gone. _That_ is why your father couldn't sway you."

The Emperor stepped forward to walk alongside the long table as he spoke. Luke stared straight ahead, appalled at his error. But he _made_ himself think; acknowledge the error and examine the damage. The Emperor had a name but not a place. He buried that knowledge deep, locked it away.

Still, he was furious at his own lapse in concentration, at how easily he'd allowed himself to be goaded into giving Palpatine so much.

 

 

Stopping beside the mortified youth, Palpatine reached out to take Luke's chin in his hand and lift his resisting head, eyes to the boy's as he leaned in, completely focused, expression deadly.

"Where is he?" His voice was low, dripping with Dark intent.

Skywalker only shook his head, tried to turn away—but Palpatine held him, nails to flesh.

"Where?" Palpatine repeated.

The boy only held his gaze in wary silence, wall after wall of mental defenses in place.

"You cannot protect him. You have already failed him once, you will do so again. It is…"

He paused, and Skywalker too sensed it—

The momentary shift in the Force tilted everything, as if gravity had skewed, as if the universe itself shifted incrementally on its axis, reality resettling about it as the Sith's eyes glazed…

Palpatine refocused on the boy, euphoric, almost ecstatic, voice reduced to an elated whisper. "One day, you will tell me…voluntarily. You will seek me out in your eagerness to betray him. Do you see it?"

The muscles about the boy's eyes tightened in horrified realization, much as he tried to hide it… But it was enough.

Enough for Palpatine to know that Skywalker too recognized the momentary truth afforded by the Force—and its implications.

Seeing this emotion flicker across his Jedi's face Palpatine smiled, gratified voice very sure. Gentle though, as the boy's sudden comprehension was played out in the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the desperate denial in his eyes as he struggled against shifting perceptions.

He straightened, releasing his hold to rest one hand to Skywalker's shoulder in empty consolation, pushing forward on the tide of this unexpected revelation, nails pressing into skin through the fine silk of the boy's dark shirt.

"Was he reluctant to teach you, my friend? Did he tell you why? Did he tell you that he had foreseen your future, as I have. Your destiny is at my side, not his. It is written in every fiber of your being, it is in the blood which gives you life—inevitable, inescapable."

 

 

Luke remained silent, eyes unfocused, lost in the realization of what was to come—would he betray Yoda? It had seemed so real; a moment of irrefutable clarity summoned up and twisted through with the Force. No vision as such, no elucidation, just that one fact, absolutely unassailable, driven home like a blow to the gut.

And still Palpatine pushed, so many questions, never pausing for an answer, voicing Luke's deepest, darkest fears. Cool, bone-thin fingers brushed his cheek in mock compassion as the Sith slowly drew his hand away. In that moment, faltering in a sea of doubt, Luke barely noticed.

The Emperor smiled lopsidedly, pale lips pulled back over yellowed teeth, that moment of intense clarity giving him confidence as it stripped it from Luke's own resolve. "Did he forbid you to go to Vader? Try to keep you by his side, where he could control you and contain, subdue you and restrain? Never to reach your full power, because that would be greater than his, and he would _never_ allow that."

He reached out to take Luke's chin in his hand again, whispering as he turned Luke's head toward him. "How easily you gave him control, Jedi. How foolish you must feel now, to have offered your allegiance so completely to one who sought only to control you through lies and limitations."

Confusion and doubt ripped at Luke's mind as conflicting emotions raged, fuelled by that flash of knowledge in the Force, that future echo. Adrenaline pushed him to act, to shout, to defend those accused—but deeper fears whispered betrayal and suspicion, chaos paralyzing his muscles.

"They didn't seek control," he finally whispered, as much to himself as to Palpatine. "They didn't..."

The Emperor only nodded, quietly but with chilling surety. "You know that they did. No matter what words pass your lips, my friend, I know what is in your heart."

As he spoke, the Sith walked slowly behind Luke's seat, pale hands trailing over the fine silk on his shoulders. Luke wrenched away in denial of the empty sophistries offered by the Emperor, who only smiled in reply.

"I can understand your discomfort, child. It is a hard thing, to admit that one was deceived, one's loyalty misplaced. And yet so easily correctable…if one has the strength."

"There's nothing to correct," Luke held, unable to stop himself from replying. He tried so hard to hold silent, to remain detached from Palpatine's accusations, but had been drawn in again despite his best efforts. He could see it happening, yet was completely unable to stop himself.

"You have been given a rare gift, child, that of clarity. It is given to so few; do not waste it."

Luke remained silent, still trying to process that moment of cruel veracity within the Force, the absolute certainty that he would one day volunteer Master Yoda's hiding place to the loathsome, manipulative Sith who stood behind him now. Truly volunteer, of his own volition—not under duress or coercion. He knew this now— _knew_ it. Master Yoda had maintained that the future remained in flux, difficult to resolve except by proximity, yet that burst of Force-induced realization seemed chillingly undeniable.

A fixed event, just as Palpatine had claimed. Were there others? Was his fate just as inevitable?

 

 

Seeing that doubt play across is Jedi's face Palpatine pushed on as he walked around the boy's chair, giving no time for deliberation, hand brushing against the boy's where it rested on the table, nails dragging delicately across his skin, subtly breaking his train of thought. "How wonderful to see one's own future, if only for a fraction of a second. It has clarified for you in one instant what I could have wasted a thousand words trying to explain."

"I will not betray him."

"You know that's not true; you _know_ you will betray him. You heard the truth, whispered in the Force. Yes…retribution. How good it will feel, to repay those who used you so callously."

Palpatine slowed to a stop, gazing into the raging fire, his voice quiet and sure. "It is inevitable; you have stayed destiny's hand long enough, child. Now it wants payment for the power it has given you—the power it has given your bloodline. And the price is invariably the same. Your father's fate is your own, it always was. Destiny, my friend, will not be cheated."

"I don't…believe…"

Oh, but how uncertain that voice was now. How precarious that previously unshakable faith.

The vision, that wonderful instant of absolute clarity, had gifted Palpatine with an incredibly persuasive coercion. Both for the boy and for himself. He had never doubted, of course; had always believed he could control Skywalker— _should_ control him—but despite his claims, this was the first confirmation that he _would_ , sounding in a clear note which had reverberated through the Force, perception beyond sight, conviction beyond doubt.

And everything that it gave to Palpatine, it took from the boy.

Skywalker shook his head slowly, torn by uncertainties. He opened his mouth to speak but could drag nothing from the turmoil of confusion which screamed within. "I…"

So close, so close to this intoxicating frenzy of raging emotions, Palpatine could only whisper, his voice hoarse. "There are no words left, my friend. Only the truth…and the Darkness."

.

 

 

Waiting patiently for her master in the wide hallway outside Skywalker's quarters, Mara Jade bowed low as he emerged. He passed her without a sideways glance, still immersed in his triumph and the boy's loss of faith—not in his allies, but in something far more important; himself.

As she fell into silent pace a step beside him, he slowed, sensing…something. Some crosscurrent of emotion…

She was in some way affected by this, he could sense that much from her. By the task she had been given. But then she was always frustrated when she had to remain in the Palace; he had trained her to be a creature of action, to travel throughout his Empire and carry out his bidding, able to hear and communicate with him through the Force, his eyes, his ears, his will…

He frowned slightly; was that it? Was it within her ability to sense Skywalker within the Force? He had taught her to hear his voice, but she had never heard Lord Vader—though she had never tried, the two remaining wary adversaries, just as Palpatine liked it. But could she now _hear_ the Jedi? And if she did…why?

— _Do you hear him, my servant?_ —

She frowned at her Master. "Hear him?"

— _The Jedi; as you hear me, now?_ —

She looked at her master for long seconds… "No master. I hear nothing."

Wary, he looked into her soul, searching for a lie. But at this proximity all he could sense was his Jedi, that burst of raw power hypnotic even in the misery of despair, burning all lesser lights away so that Jade was instantly forgotten.

It was irrelevant anyway; she would play her part obediently. She always had.

Palpatine walked on and Jade resumed pace beside him, her vague, dim sense in the Force only making him desire the power that Skywalker embodied all the more. It should be _he_ who walked obediently one step behind his Master now, not Jade. Not even Vader, not anymore. The boy's resistance only fired Palpatine's desire to defeat, to subdue—to own.

Yes, the boy was far better trained than he had anticipated, but certainly not yet beyond reach; the Force had assured him of that.

Though that did not mean that Palpatine had an easy task ahead. Skywalker would somehow come to terms with the unexpected vision, would likely try to rationalize it away somehow. He was nothing if not obstinate. Even if he couldn't, even if he _knew_ it to be the truth, he would still fight. That too was in his blood. He would resist because he believed he was right, and he still foolishly believed that such irrelevancies bought him some kind of immunity from the reach of Darkness. He would resist because he believed it was necessary—because Kenobi and Master Yoda would have drilled into him the importance of even the smallest slip. He would resist because of his friends, believing their pious, insignificant opinions to be his own. He would resist simply because he knew this was what Palpatine wanted, and he resented being caged here, being manipulated by him.

The challenge would be to turn him despite these beliefs; more than that, to turn them _against_ him. To engineer a situation in which, aware that he was walking into the Darkness, the Jedi would keep walking.

He could not, in that final instant, be pushed to Darkness; he had to receive it willingly, to open his mind and his soul in acceptance.

But he could be pushed to that very brink. Harried and provoked and manipulated to that critical, pivotal moment…when he would take the Darkness and use it as his own.

 

 

 

 

Luke sat locked again in the still gloom of his unlit room, his feet pulled up on the edge of the chair, hand to his head against the incessant pressure there, trying to reason through the vision which had turned his perceptions upside down. Not even that; no vision as such, just knowledge, bone-deep and undeniable, that he would betray Master Yoda. A truth, as absolute as death.

He gazed out across the bright, distant lights of the city, their glow casting velvet shadows about the cavernous bedroom, its overwhelming scale reminding him how desperately alone he was here.

How could he move forward now? How could he hold against this? Because he had to find a way. He wouldn't let it swallow him up in its self-fulfilling portent.

If he could just…

He paused, aware of a disturbance which rolled through the Darkness about him, trying to lock it down…

He knew before he heard the voice in the room outside, low and bass, passing out orders as if it were some divine right.

_Not now…_ Luke thought. For all the difference it made; even if Vader had heard him, it wouldn't have slowed his footsteps. He knew he should stand, but instead he simply drew his legs up tighter, wrapping his arms about them in an uncommonly childlike gesture.

The lights in the room came on—even that was beyond his control, here—and the bolts cycled open in heavy, leaden tones.

Vader entered alone, waiting for the door to grate closed with its weighty grind.

Silence drew out, Luke not turning, though he was unable to ignore the heavy, rasping breaths of his fathe… of Vader's mask.

"Your companions are free," Vader said at last.

Luke remained still, gazing out into the night, torn by frustrations, by his own inability to act. He wanted to shout, to scream at this… _thing_ to leave him alone, to go and never return. Yet when he finally spoke, all he could do was to ask quietly, without turning around, "What do you want from me? I have no idea why you come here."

"Neither do I," Vader admitted without rancor, voice eerily lost in that moment.

"Then go. Just…leave. Leave me alone." Why could he not do that? Why did he keep coming back to remind Luke of the weakness he too carried.

"You are already alone, by your own choice," Vader rumbled.

Luke whirled at that. "My choice? Choice! My _choice_ is to walk out of here and never look back. My choice is for you to…" He broke off, rubbing at his aching head, tired to the grave…what was the point?

"There are still choices," Vader reminded him.

"I'll rot before I'll help you." Luke's voice was tired and hollow, but his commitment shone through.

"Then he's won. You'll serve him before the year is out."

"Because you did?"

"Because this is what he does. He defeated the Senate and the massed ranks of the Jedi at their height. He brought down a Republic. Do you think you can stand alone against him?"

Vader's voice was strangely quiet, defeated, regretful almost, to Luke's ears...or perhaps he was just tired.

"Do you see the future?" Luke asked at last, without turning.

 

 

"I sensed the vision tonight." Vader confirmed his son's unspoken question without reluctance, aware of how it would have gnawed into the boy, left alone with his thoughts. Perhaps that was why he had come here tonight, even though now that he was here, he had no idea what to say or how to offer any kind of comfort.

His son remained silent for a long time, lost in thought. "Do you think Master Yoda sensed it?"

 

 

Luke was aware that this question was testing the distance that he sought to maintain between himself and Vader, but in that moment was unable to stop himself, desperate for reassurance that Yoda had been forewarned.

Vader was silent for a long time, which was all the answer Luke needed. When he eventually spoke, though he tried hard to soften his tone, Luke heard only a chilling finality.

"No." Perhaps sensing Luke's desolation, Vader added, "But you are not to blame."

Luke turned slightly, though it was in disbelief, not hope.

"You once said to me that you had made your decisions. You must accept then, that Master Yoda made his. When he took you from me. When he lied to you about your past. When he.."

"Don't," Luke said quietly, the word broken by tiredness and regret; he couldn't do this again. Not tonight.

 

 

Vader fell silent, unable to maintain his anger against that. Finally he had to speak out. Perhaps this was why he had come here, to say this: "I did not give you up, you were stolen from me. Remember that."

The boy shook his head. "Did you even try to find me?"

"I thought you lost when your mother died. I thought I had lost you both."

"But you didn't know."

"Do you think I would have deserted my own son?" Vader asked, appalled at the accusation. "If I had known you were still alive, nothing could have stopped me from finding you. They could not have hidden you from me."

The boy turned away, unable to hear this now. Unwilling. Perhaps it was easier to be angry, to have Vader angry, to reinstate those boundaries and not have to deal with any of this. "And what would you have done…brought me here?"

Vader paused at that, knowing it would have been his intent.

His son's voice fell to a bitter, accusing whisper when he spoke. "What father would do that to his own son? Ever."

"You would have been where you belonged—with your father."

 

 

"What protection is that?" Luke asked bleakly, the rebuke obviously cutting deep, though the truth in his accusation made his victory a hollow one. "I'm very tired," Luke said at last, turning away in dismissal, still rubbing at the hazy pressure in his head.

"It is a constant here," Vader said. "But it can be pushed back. You will find that there are spaces between and about it. It is there that you learn to exist."

Luke glanced back, knowing that Vader wasn't speaking of tiredness. "To exist isn't enough."

"There are times when to exist, simply to survive, is the greatest victory of all."

Luke shook his head, chilled by the warning. "It's no victory, just a rationalization of failure."

"Is that what you believe when you look at me?" The timbre in Vader's voice carried unmistakable menace, and Luke knew he was suddenly skating very close to the edge.

But it was where he wanted to be—at least with Vader. He desired no understanding, no commonality, no blurring of the line between them. "Yes, it is."

"I command an army in its millions and stand second only to the Emperor himself. My will dictates the fate of peoples and planets and systems alike. For two decades my word has been law."

"And you wasted it," Luke accused. "Because you knelt, spineless, willing to further the ambitions of a ruthless, vindictive old man—"

 

 

Before he realized what he was doing, Vader had taken two fast steps forward to grab Luke's arm and yank him up and about...then he froze as his mind caught up with his actions, and he realized what he was about to do.

"Your word is not law here," his son said, venom in his voice, undisguised hatred in his eyes. "You don't command _me_."

Vader released him with a half-throw. "You are a foolish child. You know nothing of what you speak."

"If you dislike what I'm saying then leave," the boy hissed.

Unwilling to continue this tirade Vader turned and strode to the door. In the long seconds it took for the lock to cycle open his anger calmed, leaving him unsure how it had come again to this between them.

"Why do you always try to provoke?" Vader asked into the silence.

"To remind us both of what you really are," Luke replied, not bothering to turn.

 

Eventually the door thudded closed and Luke was left again to silent darkness. He considered for a long time, but couldn't find it in himself to regret a single word that he had said.

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

** CHAPTER NINE **

 

 

 

"Leia!" Mon smiled broadly, arms out in welcome as Leia rushed from the transport onto the deck of _Home-One_ , the Alliance's main Mon-Cal cruiser, Lando and Chewie in tow.

"Mon." She smiled, embracing the older woman genuinely. It had been _so long_ since she had seen her, had felt safe.

Mon Mothma held on to Leia for long seconds, always pleased to have her back safely. They'd always been close, practically family, Mon having known knowing her adoptive parents well, and being a part of her life since Leia since she was a child. They were all the family each had left now.

Mon had already read Leia's report, written on her week-long journey back to the fleet, and spoken with her several times, when both their ships had happened to be in realspace between jumps at the same time. Interpreting the play of another's thoughts over the HoloNet ws always difficult, but Mon had seemed disturbed by all that had happened—and more. She'd briefly intimated that they had shouldered their own problems onboard Home One, in the form of a high-level spy, but been frustratingly unwilling to tell more, even over a scrambled channel. Some things, she'd claimed, were best done face to face.

And the worry on Mon's face right now intimated just how disturbing these things were. "Lieutenant Grade will see that your friends are settled in quarters…we have something we need to speak about," she said gravely, leading Leia away.

 

 

"Oh please!" Leia said dryly as she held the clear bag which contained the comlink, disbelieving eyes turning from Mon to Crix Madine, his face hidden in the low light of _Home One's_ carefully emptied Communications suite.

"We're not assigning blame—yet," Madine said neutrally. He too knew Luke, and though it seemed that he was having trouble accepting what appeared to be right in front of him, Leia could also see the brief bursts of resentment shadow his face as, being forced to validate this against her scathing disbelief, his own opinion seemed to be consolidating. "What we do know for certain is that this is the comlink which was sending out coded messages. Comms have track them specifically to this unit."

" _Everybody_ sends out unauthorized transmissions," Leia argued, unconvinced.

"These were encoded," Mon said softly. "Once we had the comlink to work with, the techs traced over forty transmissions on its bandwidth over the last year, all encoded. It's a standard-issue comlink, Leia, it shouldn't even be able to transmit on that kind of compressed frequency."

"You don't even know it's his," Leia said, unwilling to give in so easily, though a little voice whispered at the back of her mind.

"It was in his crate," Madine said levelly.

"We're not saying it was his," Mon cut across Madine, seeking to give Leia time to come to terms with this. "We're just looking for answers."

"If I were an Imperial agent, I don't think I'd keep my doctored comlink in my own crate," Leia said of the large, plasteel chests which every member of Alliance personnel had, each with their name and number stenciled on the side, always moved from ship to ship as they were reassigned. They held all of that crew member's personal belongings. In Luke's case pitifully little: his uniforms and fatigues, a few pieces of civilian clothing, a reader and a mass of work-related data chips…and this.

"We're not blind to that," Mon assured gently, quieting Leia's anger. "Leia, we knew we had a spy…we knew almost a year ago."

"Luke has been with us for three, Mon," Leia interjected.

Madine shook his head. "We _knew_ we had a spy a year ago. He was probably operating long before we realized."

"He?" Leia said pointedly. Of everyone here, she had thought Madine would be the least likely to accuse, having himself been an Imperial defector, and therefore being under watchful suspicion when he first arrived. But then, maybe his Imperial history was beginning to show through.

"The last coded transmission from this comlink went out less than two hours before the Imperial blockade on Hoth," Madine said gravely. "The one before that was three weeks previously…when the last of the main units transferred planet-side. The one before that was sent the day that the first advance units arrived there to set up camp—Rogue Group included. We don't know what they say yet—we can't crack the code—but I think the dates pretty much say it all."

"Yes. I don't doubt that this is the unit that the spy was using to send out information. I just question the owner's identity," Leia said, hearing her own voice raise a notch, as the Com Chief turned slightly, nervous. It was, after all, he who had put all the pieces together when the standard-issue comlink had been returned to him for reassignment.

Slowly, it all came out…it all came out, and Leia felt physically sick.

Madine was right, of course; they'd known they had a spy passing on information; had been trying to catch him for almost a year. But he'd always avoided every subtle trap and every carefully-laid snare, worked out to the smallest detail by the Command staff…of whom Luke was a member.

Had he betrayed them? Had he sat in those meetings with that earnest smile, always full of suggestions, always frustrated at their failure…had he sat there and quietly laughed at them all, knowing that they were so close to their infiltrator and yet light-years away?

She shook her head as the facts were carefully read out, biting her nail to the quick until it bled, the pain strangely comforting, a distraction from cold reality.

It wasn't Luke. It wasn't Luke they were talking about…was it?

But there were so many incidents and slowly they added up.

It was his unit—always his unit which seemed to be involved. First of all the Rogues, who always seemed in the thick of it, stumbling from one hazardous incident to another. Then, when he'd been made Unit Commander, it was always _his_ unit who'd had the close shaves, always _his_ unit under close pursuit, bugging out just a hair's breadth in front of the Empire, as they had done on Hoth. Han had said it more than once; that Luke was a trouble-magnet.

Han. Leia felt a burning in her throat at the realization. What was happening to him now? Because if Luke really was an Imperial operative then…

She frowned, uncertain all over again. No, no, he wasn't. _He wasn't_. Whatever was going on, it wasn't what it seemed. Luke would never betray them. He would never betray her. She knew him too well.

"…had the slicers working on it for three weeks, but it's a rolling code," the Rodian Chief of Communications was explaining apologetically in heavily-accented Basic. "It re-writes itself every time it sends. The key to the changing algorithm is somewhere in the previous communication, but without the key to that one, we have no way to reference it."

"How long?" Leia said simply, in no mood for excuses.

"I'm sorry, we just don't know. If we could break one key—just one key—then we could eventually decipher everything after it. But we have no point of reference and the comms are very short, so there's little to go on. And it was transmitting by splicing itself within existing messages…routine communications between the fleet. There could be dozens more that we simply didn't pick up, ones that weren't auto-archived. Any break in the order would break the key sequence and put us straight back to square one."

"Thank you, Chief," Mothma acknowledged. "Please keep trying, I'm sure we don't need to emphasize the importance of this."

"Or the importance of keeping it classified, for now," Leia added, not wishing word of the fact that Luke was even implicated to leak out.

She handed the bagged comlink back over to the apologetic Rodian and turned on Madine. "And just why were you rifling through Luke's possessions anyway?"

"We've…" Mon hesitated, and Leia braced herself for some new blow. "Commander Skywalker was listed among the dead, Leia. After the Battle of Hoth."

Leia blanched. "What?"

Madine made to speak, but Mon held up a hand to silence him, wanting this to come from her. "He was Missing in Action, presumed dead. That's why his container was being emptied; that's how we found the comlink. It was passed back on to the Communications Chief for reassignment. He was running refurb tests on it when he spotted something."

Leia just gazed at Mon, unable to take anything more in.

"When did Luke first get in contact with you after Hoth?" Mon finally prompted, voice gentle.

Leia struggled to remember, it seemed a lifetime ago. "We…the _Falcon's_ hyperdrive failed whilst we were still in the Hoth System. We limped to the Anoat System on main drive, but it took weeks. Then we were waiting for parts and I didn't trust Lando enough to risk contacting you beyond that one message. I think…maybe…five weeks, seven perhaps?"

"He didn't come back, Leia," Mon said gently. "He never rejoined the fleet."

"…Where was he…?" It was all she could think to say.

"That's what we'd like to know," Madine murmured ominously.

"Did he say anything to you about where he'd been?" Mon pushed. "Anything at all?"

"No, I assumed he'd come because of the message I sent to you…" Leia trailed off. How _had_ he known where they were, if he hadn't been with the fleet to hear her message? "Why would he come to Bespin at all if he was an Imperial agent? Why like that?"

"We think…we think he may have had a specific mission," Madine said.

"What?"

Mon paused, glancing at Madine, then, "We think it may have been you, Leia. Or all of us—the Chiefs of Staff."

"Me?" Her heart skipped a beat in persecution at that—in true betrayal.

Madine stepped forward. "Think! If he could pass you, one of the ringleaders of the Alliance, over to his superiors, then still appear to break your companions out, he would be able to return to us with his cover intact. Maybe even pick up a second…certainly keep on passing information."

Leia shook her head. "They already had me."

"But they didn't have a method of his returning to the Alliance," Madine said.

"Why did he need one? He could have just come back straight after Hoth."

"Not if he'd been shadowing the _Falcon_ in his X-wing. He was one of the very last ships to leave, very close to the time you did. And coincidentally the Imperial fleet abandoned the blockade to come after you—after the _Falcon_. Solo had already sent a comm transmission saying he'd get you out on the _Falcon_. It was on a coded frequency, but anyone with Alliance command codes could have picked that up, known which transport you were on, and passed it to the Imperial Fleet, Skywalker included."

Leia struggled to think it through; to point out the flaws. "If he'd been shadowing the damaged _Falcon_ he could have reported our position at any time. The Empire could have picked us up weeks before."

"We don't have all the answers, Leia," Madine admitted. "Maybe he'd docked with one of the Star Destroyers which gave chase then lost you. He could have made the decision to hunt you down at that point, using his knowledge of Captain Solo as a starting point, knowing you couldn't get back to the Alliance quickly. You said yourself that Cloud City belonged to a friend of Solo's. We think Skywalker might have known Solo's associates too. Given that and your position when the fleet lost you, plus the fact that you had no hyperdrive, he could have easily worked it out." Madine tilted his head just slightly. "Or do you have a better explanation of how he just _found_ you again after seven weeks?"

"They injured him—badly," Leia said. "On Bespin. Vader…cut off Luke's hand. Do you do that to one of your own?"

Mon turned in silence to Madine, but his expression softened not a whit. "Did you see the injury?"

"Yes I saw it! I treated it onboard the _Falcon_."

Madine considered a moment, eyes skipping across the ground. "Was it bleeding?"

"What?" Leia scowled.

"Was it fresh—how badly was it bleeding?"

Leia was speechless for long seconds, then, "It...it wasn't. It was…burnt."

"Cauterized?" Madine prompted.

"What are you getting at?"

"I'm _asking_ if it was a fresh wound, or simply an old injury made to look new. Believe me, a severed limb hemorrhages…badly. However, if you simply removed the prosthesis from an old wound it would look—"

"It wasn't an old wound! It didn't bleed because Vader used a lightsaber."

"I think that very convenient," Madine countered.

"You think, we think…" Leia countered, set on edge by his behavior. "We seem to be _thinking_ a lot of things. But until you can _prove_ he was using that comlink and until you can _prove_ that he was the agent, _I think_ I'm within my rights to question this, don't you?"

"Leia, please…" Mon started forward, always the voice of reason.

Leia turned and stormed out, tired and irritable and defensive. Pursued every step of the way by her own unspoken doubts.

 

 

 

 

 

.

Luke stared at Commander Jade over the top of his hard-copy book, reflecting that he needed to get to know his jailor. Needed to know how she thought, how she'd react under pressure, what she'd call him on and what she'd let pass.

He was, very pointedly, _never_ left alone anymore except when he slept. There was always someone 'in attendance' as they described it, despite the hidden surveillance lenses. Sometimes a guard or two, occasionally a man of Han's age named Commander Reece, another plain-clothes agent like Jade, but mostly the Commander herself, much to her obvious frustration. The only time he was left alone was when he retired for the night, at which point the huge reinforced double-doors to the bedroom were locked and the dozen or so guards took up residence in the drawing room outside. But the lenses kept watching, of that much he was sure.

And always in the morning, Red would return early, fazing up the privacy blackout in the monofilament-threaded windows whether he was awake or not, then settling on the seat to gaze out in silence over the distant city as he rose and dressed.

Always there. Never armed any more, but always carrying an open comlink to the guards outside, any incoming reports restricted to her earpiece.

But it was obvious from the one-way conversations that she was in charge. Which meant that it would be her thought processes which governed both his incarceration and any attempt to retrieve him if he escaped.

Despite Palpatine's scheming, Luke didn't intend staying here forever. The moment the agreement was up, he would take action…and when he did, the first person he would have to get past would be Jade.

After three weeks of pacing his prison, the huge rooms were beginning to feel decidedly smaller. He was allowed beyond his bedroom these days, and into the cavernous 'withdrawing room' which linked the bedroom suite with what he now knew was the 'private dining room' where he met the Emperor every night across that perfectly-set dinner table, sometimes for an hour, sometimes three or four. Every night food was laid out and every night neither ate. Luke wondered wryly whether the kitchens bothered to actually make a main course anymore.

But at least he was now fed during the day. Having conceded that battle he was now brought breakfast and lunch, and had simply learned to live without an evening meal. And he'd gained something even from this failure; to pick his fights with more care, to think before he opened his mouth. He was learning that Palpatine allowed no weakness or mistakes, that he had to give over his full attention to every meeting, to every single word spoken.

And he did, Luke's whole day now shaped by the knowledge that Palpatine would arrive at dusk and he'd damn-well better be ready, because there were no off-days, no allowances made. Occasionally, just occasionally, he'd get a verbal strike in himself and when he did he'd learned not to dwell on it or allow himself even a single moment's grace; Palpatine always came back with a vengeance.

But between these times, long days stretched into mind-numbing stillness with nothing to do in his opulent cage but stew over those brief interludes of intense pressure, so that despite his knife-edge situation boredom had set in, grinding each day out ever-longer and leaving him desperate for something—anything—to occupy his mind.

Eventually he'd turned to the huge glass bookcase in the drawing room. He'd asked for an auto-reader days before, but Jade had point-blank refused. How she thought he would foil the massed forces of the Royal Guard, the Palace Guard and the stormtrooper battalions, and go on to make good his escape with a five-bit auto-reader he didn't know. Still, with nothing else to do, he'd resorted to the hard-copy books…and felt his heart sink—

_'Staged Study of Fleet Hierarchy and Command Structures'_

_'Cultural Analogies in Disparate Societies'_

_'Etiquette and Protocol in Contemporary Court'_

The list went on… He'd twisted his lip, turning to Red. "Any chance of some real books?"

"Those _are_ real books," she'd said evenly, not looking up from her own silver-plated auto-reader.

"I meant books I'd actually _want_ to read," Luke tried, turning back to the bookcase.

"Those are useful books. Relevant."

_" 'The Psychology of Mass Perception'?"_ Luke had asked, incredulous. "Have _you_ read it?"

"The Emperor chose them," Jade countered, ignoring his question. "When you've read them all, I'm instructed to allow you more."

"All! There's about forty books here." A momentary flare of stubbornness had cut in, making Luke step back from the massed books, but the fact that it was Jade and not Palpatine saying this softened the blow somehow, and in truth, what else did he have to do here?

He'd pulled out a book at random. It turned out to be, _'Qualitative Tactical Data for Planetary and Inter-System Offensives.'_

He'd put it back.

"Then you should probably get started," Mara had said vaguely, looking back down to her 'reader.

"What, are you gonna test me?" he'd teased, digging for some response more from boredom than anything else.

"No, I'm going to watch you," she'd replied without looking up.

"Fantastic," he'd nodded, dryly amused. "The only thing worse than being bored to tears reading these things has to be _watching someone else_ being bored to tears reading these things. You have my sympathy."

She'd glanced up at him without lifting her head, the slightest hint of shared amusement visible in her eyes.

"Okay…what shall we start with? Your choice, Red."

So now, a week and five books later, he was staring at his jailor, mind numb from reading three straight hours of the excruciatingly dry tome, _'Political, Social and Economic Structure in the Core Systems,'_ wondering how to get inside her head.

"How about a deck of cards?" Luke slammed the book shut. "Am I allowed a deck of cards, or are they deadly weapons in the right hands?"

 

 

Looking up from her own reader, Mara arched her eyebrows, wondering what had prompted this new angle. "I guess that depends how good you are with them."

"I'm terrible with them. Can I have a pack now?"

"Who you gonna play, flyboy?" She asked easily.

He grinned disarmingly. "You're telling me you never play?"

"Play what?" She had a hunch…

"Sabacc."

"I _knew_ you were a sabacc player." If ever you needed to find a pilot, walk into any cantina within spitting distance of a spaceport and look around. The five guys sitting round the sabacc table would be pilots. Pilots always played sabacc. It was in their blood, like flying.

Luke shrugged. "Hurry up and wait," he said cryptically.

"What?"

"Hurry up and wait; a fighter pilot's life. You're either out on a sortie and someone's trying real hard to kill you, or you're in the docking bay waiting to go out on a sortie _thinking about_ the fact that soon someone's gonna try real hard to kill you. Not a fantastic thing to be sitting thinking about, so you get a deck of cards out."

"Or you could actually go off and do some other work," Mara said.

Skywalker shook his head. "Not allowed to leave the flight deck when you're on active call. We help out the techs and the mechs sometimes, but they have this system going. I think we really just get in their way. They look nervous if we go near their ships."

"Fascinating," Mara said derisively, turning away. "You can't have a sabacc table in here."

"Why?"

"Too much technology. Wouldn't want you to start dismantling it, would we?"

"Why, what can I make if I dismantle a sabacc table?"

"I guess you'll never know," she replied, still without looking up.

"Deck rules then."

Mara sighed; deck rules were a method of playing sabacc without the electronic pulse which changed the chip-cards, called this because fighter pilots often played it on flight-decks whilst waiting to fly, where considering the concentration of technological ordnance, much of it live, pulse-generating technology was sensibly banned.

"I don't play deck rules," she dismissed.

"Yes, you do," he said, very sure.

She glanced up at him, wondering if he'd read her mind. It occurred to her that playing may well give her a few insights into _his_ mind…and consequently to wonder if that was why he was trying to get her to play.

Luke folded his arms. "What, afraid I'd beat you?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Are you any good?"

"I'm a pilot," he said simply, as if the two were synonymous.

 

 

 

 

 

"Finally, someone to play sabacc with!" Luke declared with a grin as Han walked forward.

He'd arrived just moments earlier on his regular, once-weekly visit, taking the time as usual to pace out distances, note bottlenecks and security, and memorize guard numbers and surveillance.

Slowly, very slowly, they were working out a code system, since they were banned from anything but the most inane small talk, usually by the bad-tempered redhead who always seemed to loiter, Han had noticed. Luke had mentioned that he was never left alone anymore—again in the most vague, broad terms—but they were learning to get around even that. They'd developed a customary bear-hug as Han entered the room, slapping each other heartily on the back, knowing that in those few seconds they were close enough to whisper, the sound of their slaps drowned out their whispered words from surveillance mic's in the ceiling.

"Guards in the Tower," Han whispered today's topic in confirmation of Luke's previous request, given as they'd bear-hugged at the end of last week's visit.

Which had been a lot easier to spot than the previous week's request for surveillance lenses. It was amazing how hard they were to spot in the lofty grandeur of the Imperial Palace without either standing and gazing at the ceilings like an idiot or walking along with your eyes straight up and constantly tripping. Han had forgone the former in favor of the latter and was now pretty sure that the guards thought him incapable of walking in a straight line without assistance.

He had a hunch that this week's request, communicated in the bear-hug as he left—the only other time they were close enough to whisper—would be security stops and checkpoints. He also worried that maybe the guards thought they were hugging _way_ too much…

He walked casually over to the bank of ridiculously reinforced windows, glancing at the book on the table Luke had been sitting at, lifting it up to check the title when he was close enough.

_'Instituting Change: Shaping the Sociological Architecture of a New Empire',_ was the somber title, raising Han's eyebrows. He looked doubtfully to Luke.

"Are they _making_ you read this?" he asked, as he often did on checking the kid's reading choice.

Luke shrugged, evasive as ever. As ever; Han hadn't failed to note that the kid kept a lot to himself these days, everything battened down beneath a mask of distant disinterest. But then what else could he do here? Five weeks of being locked up in this strange, opulent prison, never alone, constantly chipped away at by Palpatine and Vader…it wasn't surprising that he'd developed a few idiosyncratic defenses. The sooner they got out of here the better.

"Actually it's quite interesting, if you can get past the grinding tedium," Luke said, taking the book from him. "And I learned something."

Han jerked his chin up in question as Luke placed it back down on the table, careful to keep his page.

"If you're bored enough anything can become interesting."

He did a double-take, thrown by the dry, detached tone in Luke's voice, parsecs from the sand-dusted kid from Tatooine, both literally and figuratively, then turned to the huge, heavy glass bookcase. The kid seemed to have set himself the monumental task of reading every book in there, despite their weighty topics.

"Where're you up to?" he prompted, setting forward toward the bookcase on the far wall, aware of Jade's disapproving eyes on him. She didn't like him and she liked him being here with the kid even less, Han knew.

"Halfway across the fourth shelf down," Luke said, squinting over. The cavernous size of the room meant it was far enough away that all of the traditional hard-copy books merged into long stripes of somber-colored bindings.

Han opened the glass doors, stretching up. "So you actually read _'Command Substructures and Established Military Foundations Deconstructed'?"_ he quoted.

"Unfortunately yes," Luke replied easily.

"How about…What the hell is _'Blood Royal_ — _Genealogical Justification for Autocracy'?"_

"Very, very long," the kid said with feeling. "And utter rubbish."

The last seemed aimed far more toward Jade and the surveillance than himself, Han realized. But if she was at all offended, she hid it well.

"Want something to take away with you?" Luke asked. "I can recommend…well, none of those actually. Maybe the fleet command structures one. Might come in useful one day."

"Thanks," Han said dryly, shaking his head. "Knowing who's tellin' 'em to shoot at me doesn't really help that much if they're still shooting."

"At least you'd know who to curse."

"Ah, I don't need to know a rank for that, I can curse freestyle." Han grinned lopsidedly, heading back to the table and pulling out a chair. "You gonna deal those cards or what?"

The kid settled down opposite, shuffling the old-fashioned cards. "Sabacc or aster?"

"Aster first. Then I'll show you how to really play sabacc."

Luke smiled wickedly. "You said that last week."

"I was lulling you into a false sense of security," Han said, taking the elaborate perennium-inlaid ivory chips from the small, ebony-inlaid box so considerately provided with the deck of antique cards. He was hoping to take these with him when they left, too.

Lifting his eyebrows doubtfully, Luke dealt…and the game commenced. Only it wasn't a game at all—or at least, not one which actually required cards.

"Okay then…immediately, I'm gonna put twenty on this," Han said easily, pushing two of the exquisite chips forward from his stacked pile after studying and rearranging the eight cards in his hand.

Luke glanced up; _immediately_ meant right outside the door, and following this week's information request, chips represented guards.

Han grinned. "See, you thought I was gonna bet a round dozen, didn't you?"

"That's the usual amount."

"Well let me tell ya, pal, I'm just gonna be throwin' chips all over today, like I'm made of 'em. I'm bettin' on staves—red suit."

Red; all Royal Guard. No blue-suited Palace Guards. Nodding, Luke slid four five-denomination chips of his own out into the pot, then turned one card from the central deck face up, studying his own hand with feigned interest before taking it and laying a random card of his own down in its place, feigning play.

"See, that's no good to me, what'd you put that down for?" Han contrived, then, "No wait, I'll take it."

"I dunno, I think that counts as a refusal," Luke said, but Han was already taking the card.

"No, no, see, I got a ranked card." Han placed the Master face-card down, which meant he was talking about the central stairwell in the MainPalace. Gradually, painstakingly, each of the face cards had been assigned a place within the Palace, so that questions about specific areas could be asked and answered surreptitiously, checked by Han on the way up. He slid three ten-denomination chips into the pot, the total of thirty making Luke's eyebrows rise.

"Seriously?" he asked.

"Hey, I think I can count cards," Han said, offended.

"Tell me you're not still betting on staves."

"Nah, flasks," Han replied easily: Palace Guards.

"That's a big bet," Luke said thoughtfully.

"Yeah," Han agreed. "Looks like that's the way it goes."

"So you're gonna bet big all day?"

" 'Fraid so. Wait till I get an ace."

Ace was the main Tower entrance, always well-guarded. Luke raised his eyebrows, uneasy.

"I'll double that, easy," Han warned, glancing back at the pot of stacked chips.

"Any particular reason why you're betting big today?" Luke said casually as he rearranged his cards.

Han shook his head. "Hey, just betting on what's in front of me. Maybe I like to keep you on your toes."

"Believe me, I am _on_ my toes."

"Ah, c'mon, this is a stroll," Han said, cutting short his preferred term for ridiculous odds; _'A stroll through the Death Star.'_

"Have you seen the pot?" Luke glared meaningfully at the pile of intricately-tooled chips on the table, representing just a fraction of the number of guards they'd need to get through to get out of the Palace.

"That's just 'cos you're looking at the whole pot at once," Han dismissed.

"We don't have enough chips to look at the whole pot at once," Luke replied pointedly.

"Hey, fifty percent of any game is the cards you get dealt on the day."

"I don't believe in luck," Luke said. "We make our own luck."

"Damn straight," Han agreed. "I'll take a stacked deck over luck any day."

"And if you can't stack the deck?"

"There's always some way to stack the deck," Han said, reaching out to lift the top card from the deck, to hold it with its back facing Luke as he looked at its face. "What's this card—seriously?"

The kid glanced at Han as if it were all the information he needed. "Eight of Staves."

Han dropped the card face up on the table: the eight of Staves. "See? Now _that's_ what I call stacking the deck."

Luke looked meaningfully back at Han. "Which is great… _if_ you're the only one at the table who can do that trick."

"Hey, even if you're not, it's one hell of an advantage." Han tapped at the cards, aware that the conversation was becoming a little too specific. "Are you playing or not?"

"I'm playing," Luke said, mind clearly on the bigger picture. "I'm just waiting for the right cards. They'll come."

"But not this week?"

"Too many chips on the table," Luke declared, throwing his hand down.

"A wise choice, pal. Couldn't've put it better myself." Han grinned, dragging the chips over to himself. "Besides, I think I'm gonna need these today."

"Great," Luke frowned, staring at the pile of chips as Han dealt out the next hand in this non-existent card game. "I think I really need to start stacking that deck."

 

 

"So, they've given you a little more space to pace in," Han said, gesturing with a flick of his head to the drawing room door behind him, open now into the dining room beyond.

He'd managed to communicate to Luke a few weeks back that the dining room was the last one in this sequence of chambers, and so lead directly out into the main hallway…useful information to Luke who, because of the ridiculous proportions of the wide hallway he occasionally glimpsed, hadn't been sure. That had been an interesting conversation, Luke reflected wryly; Jade had called them every third word that visit.

"Yep," Luke answered vaguely, rearranging his cards into no particular order with considered care. They'd played for an hour now, with most information passed on, one way or another. "Not quite made it as far as including a landing platform yet, though."

"Hardly, you'd need to stretch another fourteen floors down for that," Han said casually without looking up.

Both remained silent for long seconds, waiting to be interrupted by Jade, but if she'd noticed, she let it pass without comment.

Finally Luke glanced up and Han gestured again with a nonchalant flick of his head whilst still arranging his cards; the platform was on the east side of the tower.

"Hmm," Luke said simply, sliding ten ornate chips into the center of the table, eyebrows up in question.

Han snorted. "You wish. Let's try doubling that, shall we?"

He slid twenty chips forward, causing Luke to frown. "Is that…thirty, or is it twenty on my ten?"

Han frowned. "That's thirty. Altogether."

"You need to turn a card," Luke said vaguely, appearing lost in thought.

When Han reached out and turned the top card from the deck, Luke glanced up. "Did you see the deck just then?"

"What?"

"The deck," Luke prompted meaningfully. "Did you see the deck?"

" _That_ deck?" Han frowned, looking uncertainly at the deck of cards.

Luke remained still, staring at Han, willing him to understand. "The deck you just _bet_ on."

"See, now I don't know what you're talking about," Han said, leaning in, lost.

"How can you not know what I'm talking about?"

 

 

"Are you asking me if I cheated?" Han stared at the kid, at an absolute loss; how could he cheat at a non-existent game?

Luke rolled his eyes as if counting to ten, then reached out to place his hand on the chips. "I'm saying…you just bid thirty, did you _see the deck?"_

Jade was glancing over now, becoming curious.

Han stared for a few seconds more…then realization hit that the kid was talking about the _flight deck;_ the landing platform. "Oh, the…no, no." Han paused, playing the part again. "No, I didn't see the deck, I just bet on what was in front of me."

The kid shook his head without meeting Han's eye, amused. "Man, we have _got_ to stop playing this game."

"Or get _way_ better at it," Han said, smothering a grin.

Neither looked at the other for a while, afraid that if they did, they'd start laughing, wondering if anyone watching the security footage was trying to follow this nonsensical game of high stakes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Leia stood alone in the dark of her quarters, her hand to her mouth. Simply stood there, very still.

Time passed…a long, long time, whilst distant stars trailed by the viewscreen as she stared out. Eventually she sighed, a long, low, tired sigh. Very calmly, she walked from the room, heading for Mon's office.

"I have something to tell you," she said simply when she entered, and Mon frowned, probably knowing from the tremble in her voice that it was important.

She turned to her Aide, Harlin. "Could we have a few moments, please?"

He nodded diplomatically and retreated, leaving them alone.

Leia paused for a long time, struggling to find a way to do this, aware that Mon was giving her the space, not rushing her.

"I…was thinking about the comms...and Luke." Leia didn't need to elaborate further, she knew.

Last night, just as her shift was finishing, Mon had called Leia to the Communications Suite again and her heart had beaten a little faster in her chest as she'd arrived.

"Leia, please come through." Mon had gestured her into a small room to the rear, where the Com Chief and two slicers had spent the last four weeks working on old, automatically archived comms traced back to the comlink found in Luke's belongings.

The Com Chief looked down now as she came in, taking a half-step back.

Madine was in there of course, and Ackbar, his raspy breathing loud in the confined space.

Leia braced; this didn't look good.

"Lieutenant Leemarit, please?" Mon prompted, and the Rodian Com Chief nodded silently, turning to Leia.

"I'm…sorry, Ma'am."

He reached out his long, blunt fingers to rest on the console controls, and a message played out, clipped by distortion, compression audible in the broken hiss…but clearly recognizable:

_"…every chance that we will be relocating shortly. Scouts, myself included, have been sent to systems on the Corellian Trade Spine, as far out as the Outer Rim. This will be a semi-permanent base, so should provide a good strike opportunity when it's settled. Co-ordinates will follow when I have confirmation."_

It was, in some strange, twisted way, good to hear Luke's voice again, even like this. He continued, leaving only the shortest pause, as if considering, searching for anything he'd missed.

_"As far as I'm aware, Mon Mothma will not be at this base, nor will Madine or Ackbar. Leia Organa will be present, backed up by General Rieekan. No more information at present. Contact within three weeks."_

That was it. Probably less than a second when it had been compressed and encoded. It had taken less than a second to damn the man Leia had spent three years trusting absolutely.

Mon spoke into the silence, her tone that of someone not wishing to continue, but knowing that they must lay this to rest.

"We now have four messages deciphered. We gave a fragment of one of them to the Bothans without telling them who it was and asked them to check Imperial and Independent field-agent databases. They ran it through their equipment." She paused again, then pressed on, firing the last bolt home. "They have this voice down as an Imperial Agent named The Wolf. They have no visual ID, but apparently he's the one who re-forged broken links between Black Sun and the Empire following the Falleen massacre, recruiting Xizor to work for the Emperor. They have practically nothing on him, except that he's the son of someone very highly placed in the Emperor's personal retinue. They thought for a while that he may be Aurus Cordo's son—his only son is listed as a Royal Guard, and he's about the right age; four years older than Skywalker claimed to —but Bothan spies in the Palace claim Cordo's son is still there. Whoever he is, the Bothan's contact within Black Sun claims that this agent—The Wolf—left and fell below their radar about three years ago, following the success of the Black Sun mission. The only description they have is that he was a human, average height, athletic, and in his early twenties, with fair skin, pale blond hair and blue eyes."

Leia didn't bother to argue over the finer points of the description. It was petty and she knew it.

"I'm sorry, Leia," Mon said, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"If it's any consolation, he fooled us all for a long time," Madine added.

Leia turned stony eyes on him. "No. No, it's not."

"The matter seems…laid to rest now," Ackbar said into the silence. "Damage control would seem our new priority. We should look to change any codes and contact protocols as quickly as possible. Did he have access to our own agents' names and locations?"

"Some," Madine admitted. "He also piloted for my Special Ops unit occasionally. We'd already begun recalling some field agents—as a precaution, of course." He glanced at Leia as he added the last, though she had no scorn left.

"Is it likely to impact our own intelligence-gathering?" Mon asked, all business.

"To a degree." Madine said. "Recalled agents will have to be replaced, which will take time, though we rely on the Bothans a great deal nowadays. They keep to their own networks as you know, and since we have no details of their particulars, he had none either. We've alerted them though, and any which he had contact with are being reassigned."

And so the conversation went on around Leia, and everything was tied off, everything resolved. Everyone rolling over the one vital fact…that one of the closest people in her life—someone whom she'd trusted implicitly, whom she would have given her life to protect—was a lie.

He had broken faith, had beguiled and misled. He'd sold her out; had befriended her specifically intending to do that.

The words of the Imperial pilot in the transport at Cat Dato floated into her mind. She'd asked him where Luke was and though he hadn't recognized Luke as a prisoner, he'd clearly realized who she was speaking about. Now, in hindsight, the emphasis in his words—as if believing she'd sought an enemy—made perfect sense. _"Yeah, I bet you'd like to get your hands on him."_

He'd known…he'd known Luke was an Imperial operative.

Was it all true, then? The Commander, the apartments…his lineage? The Bothans had said that he was the son of someone highly placed in the Emperor's personal retinue, and she knew…she knew what he could do. Leia remained silent, completely lost as to what to do.

"I think we should wrap this up for the time being. Perhaps we could have a meeting of the senior members of the staff to agree on a course of action, once we've all internalized this," Mon said mildly into the silence.

"I would…question the advisability of making this common knowledge," Ackbar murmured uneasily. "The resultant fallout would be highly destructive both in terms of morale and our reputation."

"Of course. Perhaps we should bring our suggestions to the meeting tonight?"

There was a murmur of agreement, no one wishing to dwell on the moment right now. No one wishing to meet Leia's eyes, she realized. The room emptied in silence, leaving only Leia and the Com Chief behind.

He moved uneasily, hands clasped together. "We'll still go through them, ma'am, every one," the Rodian offered at last, voice thin and reedy. "This might not be what it seems, we may all be jumping to conclusions."

"Thank you, Leemarit." What else could she say? She'd never really liked the Com Chief, he'd always just…put her on edge, before. Now, he seemed like her only ally.

Did she need one at this point, Leia considered…or was it all academic, in the face of facts?

Still, the Com Chief paused, not wishing to leave it there. "I… I don't think…well, I knew the Commander. By reputation mostly but…he was a good man, a good pilot. Good C.O. He cared about his people, his command. I can't believe he'd do this, Ma'am. It's not who he was."

Leia looked to the wiry Rodian, _wanting_ to believe him.

He shook his head, huge eyes blinking quickly. "This is just one thing, Ma'am, it's just one thing. I know it seems pretty damning, I'm not blind. But…it's only one thing. I just…I'd want something else. To believe it was him, I'd need to know something else. Big as this is, it's not enough alone."

He looked away, looked back to her, then walked quietly out.

Leia walked in silence back to her quarters, the buzz of activity onboard ship a distant ghost. When she arrived, she stood for a long time in the darkness just staring out at the stars, hand to her mouth.

Because she knew…she _knew_ it wasn't just one thing. She knew what she'd seen in the Palace and been so quick to dismiss, at the time.

It took over four hours of gut-wrenching uncertainty before she decided…

Eventually she sighed, a long, low, tired sigh. Very calmly, she walked from the room, heading for Mon's office, knowing she had to tell the truth. Much as it tore at her to do so.

This was too big and too important not to, and she was too close to it to make a rational decision.

Because even now, even with every damning piece of proof, she still wondered…

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

** CHAPTER TEN **

 

 

 

Weeks floated seamlessly into each other for Luke, hours marked out by the pages of the endless books he read, days by the grinding repetitive monotony within them.

Every single day, around midday, the medic Hallin came to check him, only staying a short time but always friendly, strangely open and conversational given their association, quite willing to make inane small talk and seeming genuinely sociable in a professional, polite manner, though less eager to be drawn any further. Aside from Han's weekly visits, it was the only other non-confrontational conversation Luke had, and he couldn't help but try to get some sense of the bigger picture from the medic every single visit.

"And how is my charge today?" Hallin asked genially, lifting his handheld general scanner from his bag and stepping forwards.

"Pretty much the same as the last seven weeks," Luke said easily, taking the time to study the slight, diminutive man as he concentrated on the medical scanner held out before him.

"And how's life in the fast lane?" Hallin queried, eyes on the readout.

"Oh, you know, not a minute to myself," Luke said dryly then, searching to tap the medic for information without seeming too obvious, "How's life in the real world?"

"I wouldn't know," the medic said distantly, still studying the readout. "They don't really let us out much."

Luke raised his eyebrows. "Really? I can't imagine how that must feel."

"How's the reading going?" Hallin asked, glancing to the book left open, face-down on the parquetry-inlaid table beside them, neatly ignoring the underlying meaning of Luke's quip.

"Well, I finished the last book in the bookcase yesterday and when I got up this morning, there was a whole new set there. It's like a kind of magic."

"Perhaps the 'book fairy' came," Hallin said lightly.

"It could've left me a couple of credits," Luke replied in kind. "Or maybe just a note saying 'well done'."

The medic glanced up in mock-seriousness, the slightest of laconic smiles on his face. "Well done."

"Thank you," Luke said somberly. "Unfortunately the new books are, if possible, even less interesting than the old set. See, I'm relying on you to tell me anything at all that's even vaguely entertaining, happening beyond these doors."

 

 

Smiling at the subtle dig for information, Nathan Hallin turned back to his scanner, running it over the join between the artificial flesh of the prosthesis and his patient's real skin, a genuine smile coming to his lips. "Oh, you know I'm not supposed to talk about that. It really wouldn't help you, apparently."

"If it wouldn't help me, where's the harm in telling me?"

Hallin glanced up, voice firm but open. "We are trying to help you Luke—you understand that?"

Still, his patient was unable to keep an edge of challenge from his voice in answer. "I understand that you're keeping me locked in these three rooms all day every day."

"Well if it makes you feel any better, they're very large rooms," the medic said lightly, hoping to dispel the dark tone in Skywalker's voice, as he glanced about the incredibly grand proportions of the cavernous chamber.

This room alone was close to the size of Nathan's whole apartment—if one included the extensive, capacious refresher suite with its neat dressing room, then it was probably well over, and his newly provided apartment in the North Tower was hardly undersized. Sudden inclusion into this most exclusive world of grandeur and excess left even Nathan, who had enjoyed an affluent upbringing on the Capital Planet, slightly overawed and intimidated.

Still, as Vader's son, his new charge must surely be used to life on this grand scale. Familiar on some basic, subconscious level with the Palace and its lavish, luxuriant standards even if he didn't remember the specifics, so his ready dismissal of the sumptuous, opulent room was no real shock to Nathan.

"Not surprisingly it doesn't make me feel better, no."

"And it doesn't seem familiar?" Hallin ventured.

"Being locked up? Pretty damn familiar now."

"No, I mean the room," Nathan corrected. "Though Commander Reece thinks you may well not remember—your previous apartments were in the NorthTower; he said you've been here less than a year—or you had been before you went away."

Luke stared at the medic, lost. "See, now I'm confused."

"Yes, so am I in this place," he said glibly without looking up. "But if it makes you feel any better it seems to be the natural state of affairs. Anybody who claims to know anything around here is either lying or spying, and either way it's best to avoid them, in my experience… but then I'm sure you already know that."

Skywalker's frown gave the distinct impression that, for him, the conversation had abruptly gone off the map. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would I know that?"

Nathan glanced up. ""Well, I'm not the one who lives here. Well, obviously I do now too, but it's a relatively new…"

"Wait, I don't live here—why do you think I live here?"

"Well… these are your apartments; that's generally…"

Skywalker shook his head emphatically. "No they're not—I've never been here in my life before. Who told you they were?"

"Your Aide," Nathan held defensively. "And I thought he should know."

"My what?!"

"Your Aide—or adjutant or whatever he is—Lieutenant Commander Reece. The man in the main office to the front of your apartments?" Nathan prompted...surely Luke already knew this.

"This isn't my apartment and he isn't my Aide and I have no idea what you're talking about."

Nathan searched the man's pale blue eyes for a lie, but could see only bemused confusion—but then Commander Reece had explained very early on that Lord Vader's son, an Imperial agent, had been sold out and taken prisoner whilst undercover among a group of rebels. He'd disappeared for almost a year before a lead was found, at which point Vader had pursued it, but on tracking his son down, it had become obvious that he had been brainwashed by the rebels and indoctrinated, probably over a period of many months.

It was, Nathan had been reassured, being dealt with in the form of exit counseling, a type of controlled deprogramming; no input from the medic was required on this point—none at all, the Aide had emphasized. Indeed, his interference may well be harmful.

After explaining the facts, Commander Reece had also taken the time and trouble to underline very pointedly how classified this obviously sensitive information was, restricted only to the very highest echelons of rank within the Palace, and then only to those who had direct contact. The Emperor himself had made the decision that the medic should be in possession of all the facts, Reece explained.

The Commander hadn't said it of course, but Nathan hadn't gotten this far in the Imperial military without the ability to read between the lines; it had been the Emperor who had commissioned him as Skywalker's personal medic and the Emperor who had deemed him worthy to be trusted with this information—and it would therefore be the Emperor to whom he answered for any transgressions—a sobering thought.

What he should do right now then, was just swallow his questions as he had every other day, nod vaguely in agreement, then politely excuse himself and walk away. Return to his ridiculously lush apartment in the Habitation Tower of the Imperial Palace on Imperial Center, settle down, pour himself a drink and congratulate his outrageous good fortune in being here…

And yet… he couldn't help but be pulled in by the young man who stared at him so expectantly now, looking for some kind of response… just waiting, as if he knew that given all the facts, the medic would do the right thing. Assumed that just because he had the nerve to contradict the Emperor and stare down Darth Vader, of course everyone else would do it too.

Nathan stared into those searching eyes… _Don't do it—don't get pulled in—turn around and walk away. They're dealing with this, they told you so. It's nothing to do with you._

But if they were dealing with it, they didn't appear to be getting very far—and who exactly were 'they' anyway? In all the times Nathan had visited these apartments, aside from Commander Jade he'd seen no one else actually in here—ever.

He glanced down, lowering his voice. "What were you doing this time last year—can you remember?"

 

 

"Not exactly." Luke frowned, muting his own voice in response, thrown by the question and by Hallin's surreptitious air. "I guess I was… I was in the Seswenna Sector about now. Why?"

"With whom?"

"With Rogue Group—I'm a combat pilot." Luke shrugged away further explanation. Something told him he could trust the medic, and they already knew who and what he was, but all his rooms were bugged, so he wasn't about to share any further details.

"Under cover?"

Luke hesitated, unsure what Hallin was getting at. "You know, strangely we find if we admit that we're part of the Rebel Alliance, Imperials show up and start shooting at us. So yes, we were undercover."

"I mean, undercover as an Imperial spy in the Rebellion."

Luke balked. " _What?!"_

Hallin kept his voice very level, very composed. "Luke, a year ago your cover was blown and the Rebels took you prisoner. They indoctrinated you—re-educated you, they claimed. We believe they-"

"Wait...what?!" It was all Luke could find to say in the moment.

The medic frowned; "Has no one…explained this to you?"

"Is that what you think? Who told you this?" Luke didn't know in that moment whether to be outraged, insulted or just simply laugh. It didn't even occur to him to bother denying any of it, so absurd were the claims.

"It's immaterial. What's important is that we try to move forward from-"

"It's not immaterial to me," Luke held doggedly. "I want to know who's concocting this crock."

 

 

Nathan sighed patiently. Skywalker certainly had the Rim System accent and slang off pat. "Why do _you_ think your movements are being restricted?"

"Why do I think I'm being _imprisoned_ here?" Luke corrected. "Because I'm part of the Rebel Alliance—because...I'm a Jedi."

"I see," Nathan said levelly, pausing just slightly before issuing his next question, aware that Skywalker was becoming more irate, though he felt under no threat. "May I ask, are you…aware of your lineage—of who your father is?"

 

 

"I'm aware, yes," Luke was unable to bring himself to say it out loud. "I'm also aware that the door you just came through is about a foot thick and has a staged release lock, the walls have some kind of cabled reinforcement running through them, the transparisteel in the windows is military-grade and there are at least four security lenses in this room. Does that seem normal to you?"

"No, but as I said, your judgment is thought to be…compromised at the moment. My point is, given your lineage, how likely do you really think it to be that you were a member of the Rebel Alliance?"

"My lineage, as you put it, is the only reason that I'm not in the cells right now with Solo, or more to the point, that we're not both dead already."

As he spoke, the door locks began to cycle open and Luke leaned in to add urgently, "That's it; we crossed the line—got too close to the truth. They're gonna take you outside and they're gonna tell you to say nothing now, Hallin. They're gonna tell you I'm wrong and they're right because that's the story they want circulated. To just stick to the script and keep your mouth shut. Do you really believe them?"

He knew, could _sense_ the tingle in the back of the medic's fast mind; his doubt.

Hallin glanced to the doors then back to Skywalker. Seeing the uncertainty play across the medic's face, Luke felt a sudden pang of guilt at telling him so much, knowing that it would endanger him. He should have kept quiet—what did he care what the medic thought of him anyway? If it didn't matter then he shouldn't have argued the point, and even if it did…. then he shouldn't have spoken out anyway; it changed nothing, other than to put the medic in danger, which Luke was doing simply by speaking the truth to him.

That was the trouble here; if he didn't play along with Palpatine's little games then people got hurt—not him, but those around him. Those who had nothing to do with this; they just got pulled in as collateral by the opportunistic Sith. Very much like the slight, dark-eyed man who stood before him, face tense with uncertainty, either Luke played the game on Palpatine's terms or he accepted the consequences—and if the upshot had been to his own cost, then Luke would have taken the hit, but it never was. It was always a third party—the same game Palpatine had been playing since the first day Luke had arrived here, and why not; it worked so well for him…it was about to do so again.

Both men paused to look as six Red Guard stepped into the room on either side of the door, weapons ready, and Luke leaned in, letting out a frustrated sigh. "Just… agree—agree with them if you want to see tomorrow. But believe me when I tell you that they're lying. And trust me when I tell you that if they think for one moment that you do believe me, you won't see tomorrow anyway."

A tall, wide-shouldered, pristinely uniformed man stepped in between the watchful guards without quite entering the room, making a polite, expectant gesture. "Thank you, medic; this way, please."

Hallin frowned, glancing to the man, then turning back to Luke, unsure as to what was really going on. "Who _are_ you?"

"This way, please," the man repeated, his tone civil and courteous but hard as durasteel, hinting that he wasn't used to being kept waiting.

The medic nodded obediently but as he walked toward the tall, scarlet-robed guards, his slight frame dwarfed by their looming bulk, he spared a single glance back to Luke...

Luke turned away as the door ground closed and the staged locks engaged, reaching out to fling the book he'd been reading off the table and across the room in frustration.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Early evening gloom was sending dusky shadows creeping slowly across the cavernous room as Luke sat quietly awaiting Jade's return, attention split between appearing casually bored for the benefit of the guard standing by the door, and concentrating on a carefully hidden sliver of Force connection.

He was dressed impeccably in a darkest blue shirt and trousers, the elegant, fitted cut and feel of the bespoke clothing now very familiar, the refined fabrics quite customary, so that they no longer wore him but he wore them, confident and comfortable enough in this that he left cuffs and neck casually unfastened.

He was in the drawing room, the doors to the dining hall locked whilst the servants set the table for a dinner which neither diner ever touched. Servants; no droids here, Luke had noted. His mind went briefly to Artoo and Threepio, wondering whether they were still on the _Falcon_. Wondering if he would ever see them again.

He rose and walked to the tall, thick windows, free of any refractions despite their substantial bulk, gazing out over a city so close and yet so very distant; so much so as to be unreal to him now, Tatooine the vague memory of a half-remembered dream.

Reflected in the flawless transparisteel panes was the ghostly image of the huge, soulless room in which he stood, its high, arched ceiling and massive scale normal to him now, though the cramped, comfortable, intimate scale of all previous quarters on so many different ships and worlds remained achingly missed.

He was generally allowed access to the three heavily-fortified rooms in what he knew, from vague suggestions and hints dropped in a casual, conspiratorial manner by the medic Hallin, were the private chambers of a much larger suite, complete with servant's and aide's quarters, audience chambers, exercise halls, lounges, libraries, meeting rooms, offices and countless other pointless rooms which contrived to complete the massive, sprawling residence.

Whether the medic had believed Luke following their short, stolen discussion several days ago or whether he was simply humoring him in his frustration at being confined, Luke didn't know. He wouldn't put it past them to have told him to do that to keep Luke quiet, but Hallin seemed genuine in his desire to make this a little easier for Luke, though there were clearly limits.

Knowing the Emperor now, Luke also wouldn't put it past the manipulative Sith to purposely place someone close whom Luke felt he may be able to trust, offering the illusion of some kind of connection when it was in truth nothing of the sort, because whilst Hallin seemed willing now to offer tidbits of the world outside Luke's opulent prison, he also clearly believed that this was where Luke should be and where he would be staying.

Jade too seemed to be upholding this charade of a carefully created identity with a past history and ongoing future here, though she obviously knew at least part of the truth. Still, she resolutely referred to this as 'your apartments,' bringing him books from _his_ library and food from _his_ kitchens, carried by members of _his_ staff, who bowed politely and never asked questions, which was probably why they were here. If he were appointed as someone's personal aide here, the first question past Luke's lips would be, _'Why is there a staged-release lock on that door capable of holding back an army?'._

But nobody did. They just brought him impeccably laundered clothes and ornately presented meal trays, and smiled blankly when he asked their name, glancing nervously at Jade if she was in the room, which she generally was—or if not her, someone else. Strange, how quickly he'd become used to that—it made no difference anyway; he was obviously being watched at all times by a pretty extensive surveillance system. He'd had various little trials of this when Jade left the room for a moment, walking casually out of sight of the door and watching her eye line when she returned. She always knew precisely where he was, turning immediately to him. So far he'd found just one blind-spot. It worked for two days, but when he tried it again a week later, it was no longer blind.

He could, of course, easily disable the lenses by using the Force to pull wires or crush circuitry, but there seemed little point, as yet; they'd only be fixed within hours, and once he'd done it they would know he was capable. No, that was a one-time surprise to be kept in reserve for a more crucial moment.

.

He and Jade had started to play Sabacc on and off for a few weeks now, both presumably playing for the same covert reason. Jade was good, but she clearly didn't get much practice, whereas up until recently, stuck on Hoth, Luke had played a couple of hours every other day. Not much else to do there.

At first he'd staggered the wins and losses with her, then as a test he'd tried hard to beat her three solid days running, which had resulted in her refusing to play for several days, so he'd sat playing single draw or reading for long stretches until she'd been unable to resist the pull, desperate to beat him again. And he'd let her—just to see what she'd do.

Of course it didn't always go to plan. The cards didn't take sides and she seemed reasonably capable of blocking him when he tried to read her, but he learned about her either way; learned how to burrow subtly past those blocks, with the cards confirming when he did.

And she learnt about him—because she was watching him too, he saw that. Always looking for any tells, any reliable signs to help read him, clearly figuring that they'd come in useful sooner or later. She was nothing if not thorough, his jailor.

Which was what he liked about her.

He followed her distant sense in the Force now as she made her way down through the levels of the West Tower. Nine levels—always the same. Here, in what was obviously a very well-known location, she was a creature of routine—her first real weakness. Aside from her incredibly abrasive manner of course, but that wasn't so much a weakness as a…phenomenon. Still, he found it easy to single her out in the jostling crowd of minds here, her vague attenuation with the Force discernable even at a distance, now that he was so familiar with her. And he _was_ familiar with her, seven weeks into his enforced imprisonment.

Seven weeks in, five weeks to go. The agreement was for twelve weeks of compliance.

Three weeks in, he'd begun plotting Han's escape.

And Mara was his key, though she didn't know it. He spent long hours each day quietly tracing her steps and her characteristic presence up and down corridors and floors, whenever she left his prison. Her sense of concentration in certain areas, of command or scrutiny in others. Of deference when she was near the Emperor. Creating a mental map of the building about him—of exactly where he needed to go. Pulling that information together into a plan.

Then hiding it behind defensive shields of his own in preparation.

Because every evening, the Emperor came. Every evening the same discussions, the same denials, grinding him down, provoking and challenging and inciting, disputing every answer, testing every limit.

And every evening Luke felt his patience fray a little further, his frustration twist a little tighter. Felt his anger burn closer to boiling as he tried to remain detached in the face of spiraling provocations.

Tonight would be no different…

 

 

 

 

 

Palpatine settled in the chair and studied his Jedi, who sat mildly opposite him, layer upon layer of defensive walls up in preparation for tonight's assault. He'd learned how to do this very quickly; how to lock Palpatine out of certain parts of his mind, how to hide in the shadows or the plain light of day…but then necessity was a great teacher.

And Palpatine didn't need any great knowledge to know what his Jedi would be plotting; it was inevitable that he would make an escape attempt. In fact, Palpatine would be disappointed if he didn't. But the boy was learning. He wouldn't simply make some blind, unprepared dash for freedom. He knew he would probably only get one shot at this, so he would likely be making careful plans. Especially since the life of his friend was at stake.

In his position, Palpatine would have made his bid already despite the agreement, and left the Corellian to rot, but he knew the boy wouldn't do that. He would slow himself down and risk predictability because he simply couldn't desert him. Because he still held true to the values which Palpatine hadn't quite managed to strip from him yet, though the strain was beginning to show as he struggled against ingrained restrictions which only hampered him here, and he knew it.

All this strength—all this intensity of spirit, all this resolve—wasted on some pious, stunted aspect of the Force which made one beg for all that one received and even then allowed only a fraction of what one was capable of controlling. How his Jedi would thank him, once he understood that.

As Mara left, the boy glanced again at the momentarily open door, at the perceived freedom beyond.

"You are mistaken if you believe it is me who holds you captive," Palpatine opened.

"Then unlock the door," Skywalker said simply, turning to the Sith.

Palpatine smiled at that. "Where would you go, Jedi?"

"Away from here."

"Running back to your precious Jedi Master?"

His chin lifted at that, but the boy said nothing. He seldom rose to the bait these days—he was learning when to argue and when to let the provocation go. Palpatine smiled; valuable lessons for his future position.

"He would not take you, Jedi. He would not take you back. You are tainted now—that thread is cut."

Still the boy said nothing, so Palpatine continued, delivering the blow he had waited weeks for the evidence to land—there were no lies here. "To your little Princess, perhaps? That tie is cut too, Jedi. She will not take you either."

The boy's eyes sharpened, the slightest of frowns lining his brow, though he held silent.

"I told you once she would plot your destruction—did you not believe me? She has run back to her Rebellion with tales of parentage and pedigree, my spies tell me. Did you truly think you could return to that life?"

"And how did she know?" he challenged, his voice tight.

The Emperor loosed a broad smile showing dark, spoiled teeth. "Don't judge me too harshly, Jedi. I am giving you a gift—I clarify for you just how limited the friendship of those around you really was. They held you back, held you down. Because they were afraid of you they forced you to act like them, to hide your power as if you were ashamed of it; to limit and confine it. But when they needed your abilities, they expected your complete co-operation, didn't they? They bound you and caged you with supposed responsibilities and projected expectations. They demanded blind loyalty, yet this is what they give you in return. This is what your friendship means to her— _she_ has betrayed you, Jedi, not I. She alone knew the information—the choice of whether to protect or abandon you was hers alone. It's she who has ensured that no one will come for you, that no one will give you safe harbor now. She has left you to rot when you gave up your own freedom to buy hers."

The boy had turned away to stare into the fire as Palpatine spoke, the play of flickering shadows over his face highlighting his hardening features with the tightening of his jaw.

Palpatine waited a long time in silence, giving his Jedi time to digest this betrayal; branded a pariah among those it would have so willingly given its life to protect—how that must burn. Yet he held to his temper, silent and still, eyes not moving from the flames.

"There are no answers there, child," he said at last, though the boy remained unresponsive. "Did you truly think they would help you, the son of their enemy? They judge you by your father's actions. You are as guilty as he, in their eyes—just as you were in the eyes of the Jedi."

The boy's frown grew deeper, his expression dark and stormy…and in that face, Palpatine saw for the first time his father's hard edge; that cold, driving potential for devastating destruction. He licked thin lips in pleasure; finally, hours of carefully invested manipulation were beginning to bear fruit.

"They were not for you, Jedi. They only held you back."

"They taught me everything which you now seem to consider of value."

"I value the ability which runs with the blood through your veins. I value you for what you are. All they did was try to change you—your fundamental nature. Now it is left to me to unravel the ties they placed about you; to give you the clarity of vision to see the chains they shackled you with."

He shook his head slowly. "It's you who is deluded."

"And your father? Do you not wonder what he can see with such absolute lucidity, that you cannot? They did not trust him either, though he served them faithfully for many years. They do not trust any in your bloodline, child—you have a connection to the Force and a tenacity of will which makes them uncomfortable. They prefer compliant menials."

"I'm not like him, no matter what you think," the boy denied, anger beginning to clip his voice.

"I gave him the freedom and the power he deserved. They only held him back, stifled him."

"He was _Sith_ ," Luke hissed, goaded by the implied association.

Shaking his head, Palpatine pushed on whilst his Jedi still wallowed in Dark frustrations. "He was a prodigy, endowed with an aptitude and a connection which they could not understand, so they tried to limit and confine him as they now try to limit and confine you. Petty laws designed to control those too weak-minded to think for themselves. Rules to govern the majority; to stifle the exceptional and offer the succor of equality to the weak. They try to hold you back to their lowly level, but those laws are not for you. They tried to tie you and hobble you and keep you close, to put a leash about your neck…but they could not do it."

Skywalker shook his head, but Palpatine continued over his faltering objection, quiet and insistent and completely sure, voice hypnotic in its zeal. "You were too willful and wild, too powerful for them to command. How could they control that which they could not comprehend? And they could _never_ understand you…You knew that much, though you didn't know why. Didn't know why you heard its howl, baying like a wolf in the night. It calls you back to the pack and you _feel_ its primal pull in every fiber of your body. It is instinctive, ingrained into every cell of your being. _That_ is why it answers your slightest call. _That_ is why you are here. I told you, if you were simply another Jedi I would have killed you long ago, but _Darkness recognizes its own._ _I_ understand you as no one else could."

The boy closed his eyes against words which burned irredeemable doubts into his soul. But he didn't refute—for the first time, he didn't turn away.

"Look within and see the truth— _feel_ it. You were born for the Dark Side, created of it. Destiny calls you on and you are ripping yourself apart trying to deny it. You cling so desperately to the light, but you are living a lie, and your denial destroys everything and everyone around you."

"Liar…" Luke whispered, more desolate hope than confident accusation.

"Then where are they now, my friend, all those who sought to use you? They are all gone. They have seen their chance slip away and they fall over themselves to desert and decry you when you have done _nothing_ to them. If you do not hate them now for what they are, then you are willfully blind. If you do not want redress, then you are lying—to me and to yourself."

His Jedi looked away, torn by doubts and denials as Palpatine leaned forward.

"What do you desire—truly—in this moment?" he pushed.

The boy looked to him, eyes caught by the flickering firelight. They blazed with a flame all their own in that instant, wild and feral, plagued to distraction—and it fed Palpatine's soul with gratifying satisfaction.

"What do you feel, Jedi? What do you truly _feel_ in your heart? Tell me that you forgive, that you absolve them. Tell me their betrayal doesn't burn. Tell me your lies…though we both know the truth."

 

 

Luke remained still and withdrawn, trying not to listen, logic and emotion colliding under Palpatine's accusing tirade, fed by fear—real fear. Because what if he was right; even unintentionally, seeking only to goad Luke, what if he was right? Had they betrayed him? Had they used him? Had destiny placed him exactly where he should be?

In those first moments after he'd been rescued by Leia from CloudCity, he'd naïvely thought that it had been the lowest point in his life—that it just couldn't get any worse. And now...now, fate had stepped in to prove just how wrong he was. It had taken _everything_ —friends, beliefs, identity, freedom—everything had been stripped away and he stood alone… _truly_ alone.

But it had left him his father, just to clarify what he actually was. And it had left Palpatine—its voice. As cruel and as callous and as relentless as ever.

Luke looked into those rancorous yellow eyes and words failed him.

All that he could do in that moment was stand and walk shakily back to the room from which he'd come, knowing— _feeling_ —the Sith's gratified, satisfied grin at his back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mara started, glancing over to Skywalker as he stood quickly, the book he had stared at all morning without once turning a page forgotten as he twisted about to stare at the doors. A run of disparate emotions ran across his face quicksilver fast, beginning with apprehension and ending closer to resentment as his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched—in reaction to what, Mara didn't know…

The comlink at her belt sounded a tone, making her jump as she fumbled to retrieve it, Skywalker's gaze remaining fixed on the doors.

"Jade," she said.

"Lord Vader's on his way in." The muted response in her earpiece answered all her questions save one; _why_ Skywalker reacted this way. Why he hated Vader so very much more than Palpatine.

"Acknowledged," she replied, eyes still on Skywalker, cutting off the comlink as the muffled clang of releasing bolts signaled Vader's arrival in the outer room.

Lord Vader was the only person besides her master who had free access to Skywalker, though Mara had strict instructions to inform Palpatine immediately, checking of course that all security images were being recorded, as they always were anyway, every hour, every day.

Seconds later the reinforced doors cycled open. Mara set towards them, the familiar sound of Vader's regulated breathing hissing as the heavy doors swung open.

"Lord Vader." She bowed her head just slightly, though her eyes never left his.

"Commander," he said simply without bothering to look to her, stepping aside expectantly to indicate that she should leave.

Mara set forward—

"No Red, stay," Luke said quickly to Mara, eyes remaining on Vader.

Mara paused, uncertain, causing Vader to turn his gaze on her. "She is leaving," he said pointedly in bass tones, making Mara start forward again.

"No. _Stay_." The clipped intensity of Skywalker's voice brought her to an uneasy stop, though when Mara turned to him his eyes remained on Vader. "There's nothing my father has to say that can't be said in front of you, I'm sure."

 _Father!_ Mara shocked rigid at his words, her astonishment too great to disguise, pulling Skywalker's eyes to her as he frowned.

Vader turned slowly, that blank, faceless mask daring her to make comment.

But he didn't deny it.

Mara looked back to Luke, suddenly understanding so much more—about this, about him, about everything that was going on here; the larger game her master was playing.

But as many questions as it answered, it opened up more—if he was Vader's son then where had he been? And what about his history, his links with the Alliance, with the Jedi? Was it real, any of it?

Of course it was; she'd seen hundreds of data chips containing information from a team dedicated specifically to tracking him—his past and present activities. He'd been top of the Empire's Most Wanted list for over a year, since the day they had his name. At the time of his capture at Bespin, Mara knew of seventeen independent operations to capture him which all financed by the Empire—aside from their own concerted military efforts, headed up by Vader…by his …

She turned to him now, mind racing to piece everything together. Hundreds of data chips, endless man-hours being dedicated to finding the pilot who'd destroyed the Emperor's pet project… Then finally, they'd had a name—and everything had changed.

The Intelligence team who dealt with it was quadrupled in size overnight, then isolated in a separate, dedicated unit, no longer anything to do with any other Rebel or anti-insurgency units. Vader himself was assigned to head up the search…

They hadn't known—they hadn't known Luke existed!

She remembered again Palpatine's words when he had first visited his new Jedi—his fascination, his anticipation: _"He looks not at all like his mother—only his father."_

His mother…who was she? Where was she? He'd grown up alone on some backwater dustball of a planet right on the Rim—or had he at all? What was real and what carefully constructed hyperbole? Everything was under question again.

But one thing had become crystal clear; why Skywalker was here. Why Palpatine had wanted him so very much from the moment he had discovered his existence.

"Have I spoken out of turn?" Skywalker said coolly of the revelation, eyes on his father, pushing for a response.

"No," Vader replied simply.

The two remained still, each refusing to yield, the air fairly crackling between them. Finally, Mara found her voice. "I should leave."

"No— _STAY_ ," Skywalker repeated forcefully, the unexpected demand in his voice making Mara stumble to an uneasy stop.

"She is _ordered_ to leave," Vader said, leaden tones inviting no argument, though it didn't appear to faze Skywalker in the least. But now…now, Mara understood why.

"By who?" Luke challenged.

"The Emperor," Vader said.

Luke looked quickly to Mara, expression shifting rapidly from authoritative demand to a flash of bitter regret, as if reminded of what she was. She looked away, avoiding his gaze, deeply uncomfortable.

"Of course," he said quietly, eyes still on her, though she didn't look up. "And you all do _just_ as Palpatine orders."

"You think yourself beyond that?" Vader growled, bringing Luke's eyes back to him. "Then why are you here?"

Luke laughed humorlessly, turning away, genuinely dismissive.

"You should leave, Commander Jade," he said at last, voice dry and emotionless. "But then you would have done so anyway, I'm sure."

The rebuke stung, when it shouldn't have, Mara knew. She had no loyalty to him—she really shouldn't care what he thought of her. Didn't care, she corrected; _didn't_.

She walked quickly between them, head down, jaw clamped. Angry and flustered and wounded all at once, mind still spinning from the revelation as the heavy door ground shut behind her. In the long, grand hallway beyond she slowed to a halt, heedless of the eyes of numerous guards scattered about it; of the security lenses recording her every move.

Vader's son…Darth Vader's _son_. She had sat in a room with him, had spoken so casually to him, had watched him and listened to him. Had played sabacc with him—with Vader's son. And hadn't realized.

Hadn't realized who she was sitting with.

And she was supposed to be the best, trained from childhood to catch every nuance and notice even the smallest detail…yet she hadn't had a clue. But they were so different… or were they at all—the absolute demand in Skywalker's tone had stopped her dead just moments ago.

Why hadn't the Emperor told her? Why hadn't he clarified that one incredible fact, when it brought everything else so clearly into focus? Why had he given her the task of guarding him when he knew how she felt about Vader—how little she liked him, how much she distrusted him.

Why had he given her this chance to _know_ Skywalker before this bombshell dropped on her?

Because he must have realized this moment would come—that she would find out, one way or another. It may be a little earlier than he had intended, but the effect was much the same.

And he did love his little games. It would be so like him to play this little amusement out, for his own entertainment.

She slowly resumed her march down the corridor, to check that her master knew Vader was here. In truth, it made no difference who the prisoner was—he would be lost anyway, one way or another. Because sooner or later, her master's patience would fracture and he would turn on Skywalker with a vengeance—

And he would take him to pieces.

Somewhere along the line, she'd forgotten that; forgotten that Palpatine had an ulterior motive which would not be swayed. And learning Skywalker's identity had only underlined the hard facts. Palpatine would break him or kill him trying. Anyone connected with him, anyone drawn in by him, no matter how reluctantly, would be pulled in and dragged down; collateral damage.

And it shouldn't be her. It _wouldn't_ be her. Perhaps that was the lesson her master wanted to re-teach—because clearly she'd forgotten.

She quickened her pace to a military march, angry at herself for letting her guard slip, even a little. Angry at Skywalker for stealing past her defenses—and thankful to her master for clarifying the weakness inherent in any human emotion—especially this.

 

 

 

They stood in silence for long moments when Jade left, Skywalker's eyes on his father now, expression unreadable, sense guarded and veiled, something he was becoming exceptionally good at. Finally Luke turned and walked quietly toward the tall windows, remaining there with his back to his father, saying nothing.

Vader could only stand and watch, knowing that this had already escalated into conflict and having no idea how to diffuse it. No idea why he came here again and again.

Because something brought him back which was stronger than any walls the boy could build. Some need more addictive than any hostile rejection. Even though he had no idea how to express it or even name it, it brought him back here every time.

"Luke…" The boy remained silent. "Who gave you that name?" Vader asked at last, turning the boy's head just slightly.

"I…don't know. I never asked."

Silence stretched out again…

Uncertain how to continue, uncomfortable in the protracted silence, Vader turned to leave. As he did so, he heard his son's voice, very quiet.

"What…was your name?"

"What?" He'd heard the question, but was so unsure in that moment what to make of it that it had stopped him dead.

Remaining before the tall window, staring out into the encroaching dusk, his son spoke again. "Your name?"

Vader was silent for long seconds. "Anakin—Anakin Skywalker." It was a lifetime since he had spoken it out loud, since he had even thought it—his son's lifetime.

It felt deeply uncomfortable to say it, somehow clumsy and unnatural. And something else, some deeper regret…

To have to say it like this, to his son. As an admission that he was no longer the man he had been. The man his son would have been proud of.

Though Luke was half-turned away, Vader saw him mouth his surname, and realized that until this moment, his son hadn't even known whether even this was truly his or just another lie, one of many.

"Were you…serving the Emperor when I was born?"

Again his voice was quiet, betraying none of the emotion which Vader could so clearly read in the Force. The desperate desire to know, tempered by unsettled reluctance…and fear. Fear that this knowledge would pull him in and drag him down, take him where he did not wish to go, all twisted through with strictly-contained devastation, the wound still raw and bleeding.

"Yes." What more could he say.

The wave of remorse which burned through his son took Vader's breath away, though all Luke did in the moment was to nod very slowly, his back still to his father.

"I had…" Luke didn't say it, but then he didn't have to; _hoped_. He had hoped…for what?

That Anakin had been alive, however briefly, when he was born, Vader realized. Hoped that the man whose memory he had cherished all these years had still been alive. His _real_ father.

The realization came over Vader quite slowly, but still held the strength to twist his stomach—

That Vader was not his father…Anakin Skywalker was.

And Vader had crushed that man—betrayed him, destroyed him. Had willingly sacrificed Anakin to gain the power Darth Vader now wielded without compunction.

"I did what I believed to be right," he said, voice a bass rumble.

His son turned just slightly, though he would not meet Vader's eyes. "And do you still?"

It was an offer of truce, he knew. Not understanding or acceptance—certainly not reconciliation. But an offer to try to find some middle ground from which to begin. Until now—until his son had actually said this—he had been unaware of how desperately he had wanted it. Now, spoken freely, it was like rain in the deep desert.

He wanted so very much to say yes, to offer anything to maintain this. To say everything his son wanted to hear.

Instead, unwilling to lie, he skirted the question. "Why are you so sure that I am wrong?"

His son finally turned, blue eyes dull with dispirited defeat. "How can you even ask."

It was not a question, and he heard in Luke's voice the bitter, heartfelt recognition of the depth of the void between them.

"You will change," Vader said. "Come to a greater comprehension—of your place in the galaxy, your entitlement."

"As you did?" Luke asked bitterly.

"As I did," he acknowledged, unrepentant. "Understanding will come with time."

Luke shook his head. "I already understand you—that's what scares me most of all."

Vader took a half-step forward, angry that his son should feel this way—have been _made_ to feel this way by the Jedi who had stolen him away, seeking only to control him. "You should not be afraid of what you are—you should be proud."

"Of what?" Luke spurned, genuinely dismissive.

Vader scowled, unable to begin to understand this rejection. "Your power—your abilities. Acknowledge what you are. "

"I don't know anymore…" his son whispered, backstepping to maintain the distance between them, desolate, hopelessly confused.

This was a good thing, Vader told himself—that the boy was beginning to question what the Jedi had told him he should be—this was his chance; _their_ chance. Everything Vader wanted could be accomplished. And yet…something in him couldn't help but react to his son's plea.

"You are my son. You will always be that," he said at last, strong and steadfast.

"I'm lost." Luke lifted his eyes to his father in reluctant realization. "And you only wish to drag me further from the light."

"I drive you to true understanding."

"I understand," Luke said again. "I just can't agree."

"Then you do not understand. The Emperor will show you the truth—he will make you comprehend."

Luke lowered his head, for the first time conceding the concept of defeat, if only in part. "He will make me obey, perhaps."

Was it a monumental admission on his son's part, or a momentary slip? Perhaps he didn't know anymore. So much that he had once been sure of, so many of the truths he had built his life around, were turning to smoke and shadows here, under the emperor's carefully-constructed management.

Quite suddenly the boy lifted his head, the momentary glimpse of fragile doubt completely subdued. "But I'll never believe that Palpatine's right—I'll never believe he does anything more noble than advance his own conceited, self-serving ends. Nothing can make me do that—not him, not you. Nothing."

"You only—"

"No. I'll not do this again." His voice firmed. "I'll not cover the same ground over and over whilst you nurse your conscience or validate your reasons for my being here."

Vader was left to an uneasy silence, uncertain what to say against the piercing observation, not wishing to reduce this to another argument. The boy stared for long seconds, trying to hold his anger, though when he turned away his voice was disheartened and dismissive. "You should go—please leave."

Fired with frustration, Vader held his ground—he _would not_ be spurned out of hand. "No. I will not walk away—I will not leave."

Luke didn't turn back. "You already did—twenty-two years ago."

"You were taken from me. I _did not_ _leave_ ," Vader insisted forcibly.

"I wasn't talking physically," Luke parried, the wound cutting deep and he knew it, his sense and temperament changing rapidly now.

"I made my choices. I swore I wouldn't regret them."

"Then why are you here?" Luke murmured, another sharp observation cast out so casually, face completely composed.

"Losing you was _never_ my choice."

"But bringing me here was."

One more blow landed with cold, cutting precision. Effortlessly, leaving Vader to contemplate whether the boy was learning too much at Palpatine's hand. "I have told you—I do not regret my choices."

 

Luke turned abruptly to search the inhuman mask which hid his father's eyes…but saw only his own reflection, dark and distorted. "I regret them," he whispered at last, wistful and heartfelt in that moment, knowing that he was utterly confusing Vader with these mercurial changes yet unable to stop himself, too tired and drawn to care.

"I had hoped…" He laughed briefly, no hint of amusement in it, leaving his expression unguarded, laced with defeated regret, aware of having shifted in a heartbeat from curt and dismissive to unconditionally open, all barriers dropped. "...foolish things—naïve, blind, reckless things. And every time you come back, some tiny part of me hopes all over again. Stupidly—because everything I've ever hoped, I've lost."

He looked away, unable to believe he had made this admission to his father—but he was exhausted, weary of playing the same games, each circling the other, intent always hidden. Something spurred him on to truth in this moment, aware that this had to be the final opportunity offered.

"Every time you come back, you remind me of that." He shook his head, haunted and defeated, resigned at last. "And I can't do it anymore."

He searched for some reaction from his father, some acknowledgement—anything at all. _Something_ to let Luke see that he was viewed by his father as anything more than simply an opportunity to be used, as he had been to so many others.

"Do you really give a damn about me?" he asked at last, doubt reducing his words to an uncertain whisper.

"You are my son," Vader said, unsure what else to say.

Luke laughed again, that mirthless laugh, at his father's inability to say anything more. He looked to that death's-head mask, tried to see past it, to see the man within...perhaps he saw nothing because there was nothing left to see?

"Then don't come back," he said, the simple, sincere tone giving his request a solemn gravity.

 

Vader foundered at his son's words, aware that some far-reaching decision had been made, the weight of them dragging all hope from him in that moment, though he made no move to betray his unease, too proud to show weakness even now. His son held his eyes for long seconds before turning away and, unable to conceive of anything more to say which could bridge that gap, Vader turned in silence and stalked from the room.

 

Luke stood unmoving, back tense, shoulders taut, watching his father's reflection in the plexiglass of the window; watching him stare in silence for long, drawn moments before finally turning away.

His stance relaxed only as Vader left, his shoulders slumping, though he didn't turn, knowing from long experience where the surveillance lenses were hidden in this room, and unwilling to share this intensely private moment.

He stood like this a long time, gazing out into darkness.

 

 

Vader strode away, a turmoil of suppressed emotions, fired by the numb declaration of irreconcilable beliefs in his son's voice.

Even knowing the boy as little as he did, he was finally realizing how much Luke must have cherished the memory he held of his perceived father, the virtuous Jedi who fought for the same justice and freedoms that Luke now held so dear. How he must have admired him, respected him, loved him.

How he must now hate him. Loathe him, despise him.

Only now could Vader comprehend how much the words he had spoken on CloudCity must have devastated his son. That he had obliterated every conviction, every belief in that single moment; had ripped his son's foundations away and left an open, bleeding wound that could never heal.

How had he assumed that he could now counter that merciless, damning, life-destroying act with simple words? That he could win back the son whose soul he had shattered, whose hope he had so completely crushed.

But he would not take this blame alone; Obi-Wan had caused this. It was not enough that he had deceived and mislead his wife, hypnotized and beguiled her, stolen her from him with his unrealistic ideals and his pious, self-righteous accusations. Not enough that he had brought her to Mustafar to underline Anakin's loss—that he had then turned on Anakin himself, to destroy him. Had left him to burn in the fires of their broken comradeship. No, he had also exacted one final, merciless revenge…he had stolen Anakin's son, not just physically but mentally. Had hidden him away and filled his head with lies, just as he had Padmé's. Had deliberately made it impossible for Vader to reach him, even now.

His final, vindictive retribution on Anakin for defying the Jedi.

It had been a long time coming, but how he must have savored the wait, knowing that it would burn through Vader with all the caustic fury of the flames on Mustafar. That it would continue to smolder every time he saw his son, because there was _nothing_ he could do to change it.

The fury blistered through Vader now, searing away any guilt or remorse, any acceptance of his own part in this. It was Obi-Wan; _all_ Obi-Wan. He had never forgiven Anakin for coming between himself and Qui-Gon. Had never accepted that Anakin was more powerful than he. Had always held him back, constrained him, sought control, just as Palpatine had said. And when Anakin had broken free, he had taken from him _everything_ of meaning in his life.

And now this, his ultimate reprisal. His last, vindictive stab straight at Vader's heart. One final, ruthless blow landed with cold, cruel precision.

How desperately he hated him in that moment…

Vader paused, his raven cloak whipping in a flurry about him as he froze stock-still in the richly opulent hallway, a dark figure shrouded in shadows…

In that moment…how he hated himself.

 

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

 

 

**CHAPTER ELEVEN **

 

 

 

Another day, stretching into stillness as Luke stood in the long, shadowed dining hall with nothing to do but brood over Palpatine's carefully planted seeds of doubt. Was that his intent—was that why Luke was left alone for long, dreary hours? After three years of ceaseless adrenaline-fed front-line action, always battling a greater foe, every inch of ingenuity and ability, mental and physical, committed to the struggle, just to surviving day to day; hour to hour sometimes, this enforced, inexorable quietude was a listless, numbing torment.

Ignoring the guard's eyes on him, Luke gazed blankly at the brooding bulk of the main Palace beyond the windows, remembering seeing the ceremony which had marked its official completion in a holo-image as a young child. Remembering thinking it so distant as to be unreal, like some created image in a holo-flick.

By the time he was sixteen, he had been so determined to see those spires for himself one day. To reach Coruscant, the capital of the Empire, and stand in front of the Imperial Palace—to see those Towers for real.

Not much more than a year later he'd met Ben Kenobi.

Ben, who had lied to him so easily. Looked him in the eye and lied without a trace of conscience. Of all people, why did he lie? He could have told the truth; trusted Luke to have made the right decision anyway... did he think so little of the youth he was prepared to use, that he felt Luke incapable of that? Undeserving of it?

_I trusted you...I would have died to serve your cause, and all you did was lie and use. You didn't care…nobody does… They all just use._

He blinked slowly, staring blankly out until the sky darkened to a blind spot in his vision. Or had Ben lied at all? Surely it was Vader and Palpatine who lied.

Why did he even think that? He knew the truth; Palpatine twisted it for his own ends, but it was still the truth—he just didn't want to believe it.

Because if he did…

That meant the same weakness which had dragged Vader down was coursing through his veins. Inexorable, inevitable failure. The slow, inescapable fall to Darkness…no matter what he did.

Running from it changed nothing; denial wasn't a defense, he just seemed to run in smaller and smaller circles…until there was nowhere left to run at all. And still that reality waited in the shadows—in _his_ shadow.

Here, so close to Darkness, it howled like a wolf in the night, and he heard its call— _felt_ it.

He remembered childhood dreams; a nightmare, always the same, of standing in the pitch black of the desert at night, in the dip of a canyon. Of hearing the scrape of loose shale as it scattered down the incline behind him. Of turning, heart in his mouth, terrified…and seeing the barest outline as it slipped from sight, black against black.

A wolf in the shadows, hunting him… He remembered turning to run, hearing it on the ridge behind him, claws to stone, closing, always closing, its panting breath harsh and rasping, its snarl as it neared, so close that it ran in his shadow…

He blinked away the memory, still vivid enough to tighten his chest.

Was Palpatine right—did Darkness recognize its own?

Too much; too much to assimilate all at once. Too much to find a path through, alone. He could feel it grinding him down every day now, feel his resolve faltering, his denials weakening. What was the point in arguing? Who listened? Not even himself, any more.

He glanced down, mind swimming in frustration, the afterimage of the window dancing in his vision.

The window.

Palpatine's words echoed through his mind: _"A prison made to hold a Jedi"_

He glanced back to the window, struggling to blink away his blindness as he stared at the transparisteel, seeing the monofilaments which were embedded within the thick pane, rendering it unshatterable. He'd been struggling for weeks to get past the one single, biggest obstacle in his plan: to get out of these rooms. He looked again at the thick, heavy, unbreakable pane.

Still, why was he taking the Emperor's word for that? Why was he taking the Emperor's word for anything?

Because it was probably the truth.

_It doesn't matter. Why are you just sitting here and doing exactly what he wants? Why aren't you fighting him, why aren't you trying to get to Han—why aren't you trying to get out of here?_

Where would I go?

 _It doesn't matter where you_ _ARE_ _—it just matters where you AREN'T. It doesn't even matter if he's telling the truth or not. That doesn't mean you have to do what he wants._

Stood alone with his thoughts, for the first time the notion occurred to Luke that the truth wasn't enough. That simply telling the truth didn't make Palpatine _right_.

He scowled, indignant—

_It doesn't give him any power over you. Stop doing as he wants. Start fighting back._

How?

_Just DO something._

I gave my word.

_You gave your word to stay. To listen. Not to try to escape… He's sticking to the letter of your deal—do the same. If you don't actually try to leave, just...test the theory… He's playing mind games—don't let him._

Luke looked at the transparisteel window with new purpose; it was absolutely free of any refraction or distortion, making it difficult to judge its thickness, but at its edges he could see it disappearing into a heavy alloy frame within the dressed stone, the two sides of the frame giving a good indication of pane's thickness—greater than a large starship viewscreen. Looking closely, squinting against the light, he could see the two layers of fine, clear monofilaments threaded through the body of the pane, interwoven and set into the heavy alloy casing which framed it.

All transparisteel viewports on starships had this monofilament as a defense against explosive impact, but it was usually so fine as to be invisible to the naked eye, and generally only one layer was embedded. Luke couldn't recall ever seeing two layers—in fact, he could only recall actually seeing filament at all from very close up in the largest of panes on military ships. For it to be visible, particularly at this range, the sheet must be, to all intents and purposes, unbreakable.

What he needed was something capable of cutting through the filaments; without them, he was pretty sure he could now break it with a solid blow from the Force, as thick as it was.

Pressure against the woven structure supposedly pushed the filaments together, enhancing their strength. Could the Force be applied over a wider area—a more even distribution of power, sufficient to snap the monofilaments without clumping them? Perhaps…

But he needed to be _sure_ …

He looked away, aware that he had been staring at the window for a suspiciously long time now, hoping that the guard in the corner and whoever was watching the security images thought that he was simply looking through it rather than at it. He didn't glance at the guard—do that now, and he may as well give them a written warning of his intention.

He shouldn't do it—he had given his word…

_Don't break it, then—just…test it._

And on the day, if it broke, what was he going to do? Jump out of it and off the edge of the balcony? Twenty stories up, to land on the main roof of the palace? He'd already pretty conclusively proved to himself that he couldn't take that kind of fall whilst at Cloud City.

And there it was again; doubt. Self-doubt. He _could_ take that fall—he _had_ done it.

And if by some miracle he did—then what? Set off on foot, against what would definitely be a very sophisticated surveillance system, only the vaguest idea where Han was or which way to go to reach him.

He knew that Han was in the huge bulk of the main Palace below… and that every other being there had earned that place because they were fanatically loyal to the Emperor.

He's have no weapon, when he knew how many guards habitually walked the Palace. He'd stopped bothering trying to count after a couple of hundred; it became pretty much academic.

There was absolutely no logical reason to try to break the window.

Except that he was sick of being led around by Palpatine.

He was sick of sitting here and doing nothing.

He was sick of being watched and…

 _Being watched_ —by security lenses and guards alike.

_So many that it became academic... Too many guards; too many to count…_

He didn't need to jump; he could walk out of here…just walk calmly out.

Luke nodded just slightly to himself, looking back to the transparisteel pane.

He definitely needed to test his theory…but he needed to hide that fact behind something else… behind a bigger statement.

His eyes scanned the huge, dark, somber dining hall and came to rest on that damn table…and he smiled.

 

 

 

 

 

Mara walked down the dark, opulent hallways, on her way from the main Ops room two stories above Skywalker to the Information Suite many stories below, where she had been summoned by the Emperor. It was a trek from Skywalker's apartments to anywhere, the floors immediately above and below him kept empty, partly for security, partly to allow for the outrageous fortifications her master had instigated to hold his precious Jedi. None of which seemed very necessary. It occurred that aside from the strange, distant contact she occasionally picked up on from Skywalker, like a mental whisper, she hadn't once seen anything to confirm her master's belief that Skywalker was even a Jedi, let alone one worthy of this kind of security.

Still, learning his heritage had made her determined to remain wary, both of his abilities and of him. And yet…

Even as she thought that, Mara was aware that despite her best efforts, her tenseness around him was beginning to slip in reaction to his open, familiar manner. Why was he being so…amicable? He was a professional soldier and so was she. He _knew_ that it wouldn't make her hesitate if it came to the crunch, so what was he trying to do?

His unaffected air was…disquieting. She didn't like it—didn't like that he made her look him in the eye.

Didn't like that she was thinking about him right now.

She had seen his expression, his whole demeanor change when the Emperor was there—even when other guards were there. Seen those defensive walls drop into place. This was something he shared only with her, and it felt…disturbingly genuine. A sincere attempt at communication—at making some connection, just for the sake of it.

Which did nothing to tell her why, and since he somehow managed to be both sociable and guarded, she doubted very much that she would ever find out. _Guarded_ —she wondered again at his past, something he never mentioned; wondered where he had been trained. He was about her own age, so would have barely been born when the Jedi were wiped out. But he must have found a way, found a Master, because he _was_ trained.

There were few who could withstand the overbearing mental presence of her master, yet he'd held out this far. It took a well-trained mind to hold focus through all that carefully-created confusion, that much she knew.

His studied calm was deeply disquieting to her; his openness, his reluctance to judge. She was an Imperial and she was his jailor, which made him more entitled than most to harbor a low opinion of her. Yet through the nebulous contacts she had sensed from him, she hadn't once felt that he'd judged her for this.

This conscious lack of preconceptions was unsettling. Always with her master, his every thought was tinged with frustration at her, a sense of his disappointment at her constant failure to live up to his expectations. With Skywalker there was just…acceptance.

She knew of course that she was only seeing the surface—only seeing what he allowed her to see—but…it had that same honesty to it that permeated all her dealings with him. It was like looking at the surface of deep water. It drew her in…

She shivered in the cold, glancing at the cloud-shrouded sun, low over the jagged horizon of distant buildings. The Emperor had summoned her, presumably to make preparations for his daily visit to his Jedi.

She didn't envy Luke, to be trapped here with her master, only one possible outcome. How could he hold out against that certain knowledge? What was the point?

She cursed silently, realizing that she had broken one of her own basic rules; she had called him by name.

Mara waited outside the Information Suite as the guards opened the doors. Her master didn't bother to look up, but she bowed anyway before entering.

The Emperor was staring at a bank of several two- and three-D images projected into space before him, most containing written information which, viewing from back-to-front, she was unable to read.

Finally he looked up to her through the holo's. "Why are you here when Skywalker is awake?"

There was no preamble; he seldom bothered with pleasantries.

Mara frowned. "I was told you wanted to see me immediately, master."

"I told you never to leave him alone and awake. Always remain close to his quarters."

"The guards are on duty, and there's one in the room," Mara said, careful not to let too quarrelsome a tone enter her voice.

"He's a Jedi. Guards are useful to slow him down; they certainly won't stop him from doing anything he intends."

Palpatine paused; became very still, and she knew he was calling the Force to him. He smiled broadly, teeth yellow in the shadows of the room. "Ah; I believe my Jedi is about to do something rather rash…"

The last word was drowned out by the general alert claxon, which made Mara jump in shock. The comlink on her belt sounded its own insistent tone seconds later.

Chagrined, she glanced back to her master, who seemed more amused than anything else.

_—This is your mistake, child. Go and correct it.—_

He spoke through the Force, since the claxon effectively drowned out any chance to hear him audibly. Cursing inwardly, Mara turned on her heel and set off for Skywalker's quarters at full-tilt.

 

By the time she reached the rooms, there were perhaps forty or so armed guards out in the corridor, their guns focused on the heavy double doors to the private dining hall, which were open. Mara pushed through them into the room, her own gun drawn.

And walked into a scene of controlled chaos.

About two dozen guards were in the room, a mixture of Palace guards with weapons drawn and Red Guards carrying force-pikes or the small, powerful handguns concealed beneath their ceremonial cloaks, all with their backs to her, pointed to the far side of the massive room, close to the fireplace. Pushing through, Mara glanced to her right and slowed to a stop before the window, the room's priceless antique table reduced to splintered firewood beneath it.

The plasteel window was hugely distended outward, its surface crazed into pieces so fine that it was completely opaque, the shattered remnants barely held in place by the monofilament wires, the heavy inset frame buckled in places, its metal fracturing as it withstood the brunt of the force—but it had held against whatever had struck it. Just.

Whatever had struck it—because it certainly wasn't just the table; heavy as it was, it wouldn't even have scratched the surface. No, the table had pretty much been _between_ whatever had landed the blow and the window-pane itself, because the transparisteel pane was designed to withstand a three-click explosive charge detonated against it.

Mara had thought it outrageously over-specified when the Emperor had begun building this prison. Even the large transparisteel screens of front-line military starship like Star Destroyers were designed only to withstand two clicks.

Her master always said that the Jedi Order's control of the Force was weak, fading as the Darkness gained ever more power, leaving them unable to redress the balance—but this display of raw power rivaled any she had seen by the Emperor.

A thought occurred for the first time, disturbing in its consequences;

Were Skywalker's powers equal to Palpatine's?

Was he a genuine threat?

Turning away, she pushed her way quickly to the front of the assembled guards to find Skywalker standing quietly facing the wall by the hearth, his hands behind his head.

"Hey, Mara." His voice was unruffled, almost light, as if amused at the outrageous over-reaction he'd instigated.

Mara snorted; apparently they were on first-name terms now. How had he found _that_ out?

"You want to tell your trained nerfs to back off?" he continued.

She could almost hear the murmur of anger travel round the room.

Could almost see him smiling at it.

"Okay, calm down," Mara said, speaking equally to the guards and to Skywalker.

His head turned slightly to the left, his tone suddenly very different. "Don't even try it…I'm serious."

Mara turned to see a blue-clad Palace guard aiming a specialized dart gun, little more than a gas-powered tube with a button-trigger, at Skywalker's back. The guard hesitated momentarily, then re-aimed.

With a ' _crack,_ ' the dart shot from the gun, flying through the air faster than the eye could follow—

To pause, spinning on the spot mid-air a short distance from the Jedi's shoulder. Before Mara had a chance to react, the dart yanked about and shot like a bullet back to its firer, embedding in his unprotected neck and eliciting a yelp as he was thrown back.

The tranquillizer had been tailor-made by the Emperor's geneticists to work in seconds on Skywalker, but the guard was human of course, so he'd barely pulled it from his flesh before it dropped him to the ground, unconscious.

Everyone leaned forward slightly as the already tense atmosphere raised another notch.

"I think everyone needs to _calm down_ ," Mara said firmly, aware that one way or another she had to regain control, though the first inklings of nerves were beginning to worry at the edges of her own thoughts.

Suddenly, she was no longer dealing with another prisoner—now she was dealing with a Jedi. Somehow, somewhere along the way, she'd allowed herself to dismiss and ignore that, carefully encouraged by Skywalker's casual calm, his reluctance to visibly use the Force. It was the oldest trick in the deck, to remain amenable and so lull one's enemies into a false sense of security. She was both angry and embarrassed to admit it had worked.

"I'm calm." There was a seldom-heard edge to Skywalker's voice now which made Mara's adrenaline surge. "I told him not to do it."

Holstering her gun, Mara fumbled for the small medikit box at her belt and took out an ampoule, loading the I.V. syringe. Handing it to the guard next to her, she indicated with a nod of her head that he was to inject the Jedi as she took her own gun back out and re-aimed it.

"No," Skywalker said, turning slightly to her. "You do it."

Mara frowned, wary. "Why?"

"Because I trust you." It was the most bizarre thing to say given their circumstances, but it had an inexplicable ring of truth to it which made Mara distinctly uneasy.

Lifting her chin in defiance as if he had offered a challenge, she handed her gun to a guard, took the syringe and stepped forward, aware of the fact that if he wanted to kill her, no one would be fast enough to stop him. But then, judging from the window, if he had wanted to kill her, he could have done so a long time ago.

It wasn't until she was moving forward, committed, that she realized that this may well be a very different challenge.

Setting her jaw, she stepped in close, taking his left arm and pulling it unresisting behind his back as she leaned her weight against him to hold him to the wall, her foot pressed against the inside of his so that she could trip him if he tried to turn about. She twisted his wrist outward without any resistance, pulling up the fine black linen of his sleeve and holding the needle to his artery, aware that the adrenaline of the moment was making her hands tremble, the tip of the needle shaking. "Dammit!"

"It's okay, Mara." He turned his head slightly, his voice very quiet, for her alone.

" _Shut up!"_ she whispered vehemently, unsure why this was affecting her so much. It wasn't fear, it was…she blinked away the frustration of conflicting emotions, trying not to think about it.

The needle slid into his vein, a mist of scarlet feeding back into it before she injected it quickly, feeling his muscles begin to relax seconds later. His other arm went to the wall in front of him to steady himself as he began to lose consciousness, tense body slackening as his breath began to slow.

Not sure why, Mara took his arm as she pulled the needle free, supporting his weight so that they slid gently to their knees together, the light in his eyes dimming as he lost focus.

"Why do you trust me?" She whispered it urgently, in that moment needing desperately to know.

He smiled gently, but he was already beginning to fade as she took his loose head, holding his gaze on hers. "Why?!"

"I see...past…your …"

But his eyes were already closed, so she lowered him to the floor, leaning back to crouch on her haunches at arm's distance.

Remembering where she was, she glanced up at the watching guards. "Out. Return to your posts. I'll make a report to the Emperor."

The guards filed from the room, muttering amongst themselves as they glanced at the shattered plasteel, unsettled. The mysterious prisoner suddenly had an ability which previously very few had known. Even of those who knew, Mara knew from sudden experience that to be _told_ what someone was and to have it _proven_ before their eyes were two very different things. The presence of a Jedi among them made everyone distinctly uneasy.

Watching him breathe, unaware of the guards' departure or the passage of time, she rocked on her heels.

How had he done this? How had he slipped past her every defense?

Uneasy emotions long-forgotten slowly smoldered at the edges of her thoughts, lit by the distant whisperings of his presence in the Force. What did she feel? When she closed her eyes and sensed this scattered, indistinct resonance, what was tugging at her thoughts? Was this…empathy? Guilt? Why had he done it? Why was she _letting_ him?

Alone now, an inarticulate sound hitched in her throat, half-sob, half-fury. Striking out, she caught him hard in his ribs with her fist, though she knew he couldn't feel it, laid awkwardly in unconsciousness.

"Fool!" she accused. "You're a fool to trust me, Luke Skywalker. This is what you get!" She lunged to her feet, staggering backwards, putting some distance, mental and physical, between them.

"I'll slip a knife between your ribs as soon as look at you. Remember that!"

She took two short steps forward, intending to land a vicious kick into his side, but stopped dead, unable to deliver the blow.

Aware that she was shouting at someone who couldn't hear her, she sternly gathered her wits about her and strode over his body without looking down, decisively shutting down that tiny, vulnerable part of herself which had so willingly attuned to this hypnotic, mesmerizing mind

She had no choice but to sense the Jedi's presence…but she could choose whether or not to _listen_.

She paused beside the shattered remains of the military-grade transparisteel sheet and ran her finger over its crazed surface, noting at this close range that many of the monofilaments had actually sheared through, fracturing completely under the force of that invisible blow. Realizing that a second blow would probably have broken the pane open completely.

She narrowed her eyes, lost in thought, for the first time afraid for her master.

"You worry too much, child."

Mara whirled in shock, her already shredded nerves cut to the quick. The Emperor walked calmly across the room to the window, reaching out his hand to the distended pane.

"What power he has." He smiled appreciatively, totally enthralled.

There had been other Jedi, of course, when Mara had been younger. But none like this.

The few who had escaped the scourging and found safety in the small Rebel groups who were littered around without any real organized resistance in the early years of the Empire. Fewer and fewer by the time she had gained her position as the Emperor's Hand.

But she remembered them, generally brought by Lord Vader to the Imperial Palace—to his Master. Like a predator bringing home the kill. They lasted a day, a few occasionally, before the Emperor destroyed them. Sometimes Mara had been summoned to witness their end, to understand the powers they held, what they were capable of, what could be done to counter them—what it was to be in the presence of a Jedi. Sometimes he gave them a weapon, sometimes he didn't. Often he gave them a lightsaber and turned Vader on them, an exclusive show for her master's personal amusement.

Some were more powerful than others; a few were little more than padawans, who fought with desperate passion. Others were Masters, who dueled and died with calm dignity, though Palpatine maintained that this was immaterial; in the end, they all died.

But none had held this power, or they would surely have thrown it against him in those last desperate moments. And none had ever held this power over her master, a driving obsession which blinded him to any danger.

She almost said it—almost spoke her fears out loud. Almost asked if Skywalker was a threat.

But she held her tongue, knowing her master would see that as a questioning of his own abilities, and that would have been intolerable.

Palpatine pulled his hand sharply from the shattered pane, a tiny drop of scarlet forming on the tip of his bone-white finger.

Mara stared at the drop, ruby red against pale white, deeply disquieted by the sight; it occurred that she had never once before seen her master bleed.

That dark droplet of blood against his pallid skin pulled her consciousness toward an enveloping, transcendental stillness, as if time itself slowed then fell away…

 

…  
… … …  
 _Something…something closed in, like a storm raging against the night, dark clouds obliterating the moonlight._  
 _Duplicity, betrayal…loyalties challenged, allegiance resolved. Everything in flux, erratic._  
 _Everything changing, even herself. Nothing could remain untouched, destiny itself yielding…_  
 _Blood red sun, cold as death. It split momentarily and went binary in her blurred vision, the silence whispering riddles…_  
 _'Son of Suns…'_  
 _The sky turned dark and the sun faded to a pallid moon and she heard— felt—something wild and primal at bay in the pitch of night, like a wolf prowling in the shadows…_  
 _The ashen moon seared blood red again, a single scarlet drop falling from the heavens to land at her master's feet, soaking into the hem of his long, sable cloak…_  
 _…The moment, that single instant stretched taut…_  
 _A vast sweep of possibilities tangled about and among each other, all futures circling that one moment._  
 _One decision, one inflexible will._  
 _The weakness which is a strength…_  
… … …  
…

The howl of a wolf in the darkness threw her back as she jolted, reality snapping back in about the surreal vision.

"What did you see?" Her master's voice was instant, demanding.

Mara shook her head slowly—whatever it was, it had evaporated into the ether, like waking from a dream. "I saw…" She struggled to bring any memory of the vision back, but only one thing remained, burned into her memory like the after-image of staring at the sun too long. "…A wolf… A wolf in the shadows…hunting."

"Hunting what?"

She almost said it: _you_.

But as she opened her mouth to speak, realization slipped away like the black wolf itself, and all she could do was to stare blankly into her master's yellow-flecked eyes.

Finally she looked away, her eyes skipping about the room unfocused as she tried to recall the brief instant of clarity. She had experience only a few visions in her life and when they came, they were like this—broken, fragmented, intensely real in the moment, but lost to her the instant they dissipated.

She shook her head then found her voice, remembering to whom she spoke. "I don't know, master. I'm sorry..."

She knew it both displeased and frustrated him that her abilities were not equal to this, so tried to move the conversation quickly on to something more readily achievable. "I'll have the pane replaced immediately."

"Do so." His tone was impatient, irritable.

Mara bowed and glanced to the unconscious man. Turning to call the guards in she paused, twisting back without looking up, tone penitent. "Master, I apologize; I shouldn't have left him. He's too great a danger—I understand that now."

"Only now?"

She heard the familiar sting of disappointment in his voice, but when she looked to him, his eyes and his attention were totally centered on the slumped form of his Jedi, and she was already forgotten.

 

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

.

 

** CHAPTER TWELVE **

 

 

 

"The Emperor commands your presence." Mara spoke without emotion, without even bothering to look.

It was nine days since he'd shattered the window—he thought.

For over a week the drug had kept Luke hazy and still—not quite unconscious but not quite able to gather his wits enough to stand or walk or even truly react to anything about him.

Whatever the drug was, Luke hadn't been able to counter it with the Force, leading him to wonder in retrospect whether it was self-replicating; anything else he would have been able to clear from his system. This must have been custom-developed to duplicate at a faster rate than he could remove it, leaving him to sit in vague awareness as time buzzed by in long blank waves the memory of which left him from moment to moment, interspersed by fractions of jumbled images removed from time or circumstance.

He had distant, distorted memories of people coming and going, of Mara ever-present, watching him as he watched her, blinking slowly, unable to do more than simply sit in the chair by the window, books remaining unread, the sabacc cards on the table untouched, stillness stretching in aching silence. Of raised voices and sharp words when Vader drifted through his line of sight.

Of Palpatine sitting in the huge, heavy chair opposite him, always talking, reproaches and rebukes too fast to follow.

Of watching his reedy, pallid lips moving against spoiled teeth with no idea—none at all—of what he had said. Just staring at him in dull, listless silence and watching…

When he had finally summoned every iota of will and concentration to murmur, "..stop.." —just that—the rancorous old man had paused mid-diatribe, cold amusement in his eyes.

"Stop what, Jedi?"

"...this.." he'd uttered, aware that when he blinked it took long seconds to drag his eyes open again.

"Have you learned this lesson?" the Sith had asked with taunting indifference.

It had taken a long time for Luke to answer. A long time simply to process the question and longer still to realize that he had no choice in this; either he conceded or he remained in this state. He was aware of time passing, of how long it took him to gather the focus to reply. Acutely aware of Palpatine's mocking, expectant stare.

It had probably been quite literally minutes before he finally managed, "...Yes..."

Mara had been summoned back into the room to administer an antidote which she did without once looking at him, despite the fact that he had watched her constantly from cloudy, drug-dulled eyes.

And then he had slept—for how long he had no idea.

But when he'd woken it was late evening and he was in the high, wide bed, the sheets perfectly straight, as if he hadn't once moved since being placed there.

Very much aware that he had been given a crystal clear warning—that they had the drug in reserve; that they could control him—stop him dead if they wanted to.

But he now knew that Mara and some of the guards routinely carried it, and he knew they could fire it in a dart, though it couldn't be made airborne—if it could, they would surely have used it.

And he knew Mara had access to the antidote.

She kept a wary, deliberate distance from him now, spurning any attempt at communication, her sense in the Force cold and hard and closed in a way that it had never been before.

He remembered…through the fog of the drugs she had first injected into him when the guards had rushed into the room in gratifying numbers...remembered her speaking to him, turning his face toward her as she spoke, but her words were lost to the numbing haze and if he'd had enough awareness to answer, then he'd had too little to remember.

He knew he'd disturbed her somehow; angered her—scared her perhaps. Alienated her probably…which was never his intention

Of everyone here, Mara was the one person whom he thought he might somehow reach out to. The one person with whom he wanted to try such. Something about her presence had…resonated.

But now she never met his eyes. Nobody here did. No one except Palpatine.

He'd rolled to his side and waited for the room to stop spinning. Eventually he pushed upright on the edge of the bed, holding still as reality did one slow, deliberate, nauseating loop about him.

"How long have I been out?" he finally asked, hoping to draw her out.

His dry throat made his voice rough and ragged and he shivered physically, though he didn't know whether that was the nip of the cool air on his skin—he wore only drawstring sleep trousers—or withdrawal from the drugs.

She didn't answer, didn't look.

His throat and mouth were parched. The thought of standing seemed insurmountable in that moment.

"Not talking, huh?" he murmured, rubbing at gritty eyes. _Keep trying._ "C'mon, it's not like you _liked_ that table."

Still she wouldn't turn. He dragged a trembling hand through his hair, very much aware of how fragile he felt. "Are you allowed to give me water?"

No reply.

"Then I guess something to eat's out of the question?"

He tilted his head, trying to catch her eye. "C'mon, Red. You're the only one around here worth talking to."

He sensed some deeper discomfort at this, some uneasy confusion, and wondered at it.

Her head turned a fraction, pale green eyes narrowing at him, and he managed a tired, lopsided grin, which only seemed to make her scowl all the more.

"C'mon—one word? Would it make you feel any better if I told you that right now I feel pretty much like that table looked?"

"No." She glared, voice sharp and accusing, though it lacked her usual bite.

But she had spoken.

"See, you're such a pushover—you just can't resist putting me down." He smiled as he spoke, his voice teasing, eyes already half-closed again.

Those jade green eyes softened just slightly as they met his and she shook her head, the barest touch of a smile lifting the corners of her lips.

_"Mara!"_

The wave of Dark energy rolled into the room like a pressure change, enveloping them both, breaking the moment. His voice was hard and sharp, brimming with annoyance, and his eyes never left Luke as he entered, a flurry of raven robes against the red skies of dusk outside.

Jade bowed low, her sense abruptly penitent.

Luke remained sitting where he was, too weak yet to stand. But his eyes burned at Palpatine and his mental barriers, such as they were now, came up.

The Emperor stared at him for long seconds, that same sense of infringed ownership burning in his thoughts that Luke had felt before, though when exactly escaped his still-slow mind.

"Come," Palpatine ordered curtly, turning and walking from the room.

Luke sat for long seconds, still shivering, wondering what the Sith would do if he simply remained where he was; considering the implications. But he was already in a foul mood and Luke was too tired and too drawn to wish to push it further tonight.

Tonight he just wanted this over.

He shrugged on the dark, fine linen dressing-gown and trailed towards the drawing room without bothering to tie it, moving slowly, hand against the walls for support, pausing at the doorway to gather his strength to walk in a straight line to the chair, determined not to show his weakness before the Sith, though he probably knew it anyway.

Palpatine settled without comment into a chair beneath the tall windows in the Drawing Room, a second chair placed opposite him, Jade walking to stand to attention by the locked door to the Dining Room beyond.

 

  
"You are dismissed, Mara," Palpatine charged without looking round. Aware of his own simmering anger now, he kept his sulphurous eyes on his Jedi as he paused in the doorway from the bedroom, knowing how indignant the boy would be after his maltreatment; that he would try to hold out as long as possible before being pulled into conversation.

"Sit," he said curtly, indicating the chair opposite him with a nod of his head.

Weak as he was, the boy didn't even bother considering refusal. He half-walked, half-stumbled forward, reaching out for the chair to steady himself, breathing heavily. Finally he sat, resentful eyes focused on nothing, lips firmly shut.

But he sat.

Palpatine watched him, angry himself, though for a very different reason. "Did you talk, Jedi? Did you hope to find a kindred spirit? An ally even?"

The boy didn't reply, didn't even look up.

"I would look elsewhere, Jedi; she has no compassion. She has no weakness." The insult was implied, but still the boy held his silence as Jade left obediently, the heavy door locking home behind her.

The hush hung uneasily in the huge, shadowed room before Palpatine settled again, eyes narrowing.

"How quiet you are today. Does one single word from another being give you such resolve? Perhaps I should bring her back and rip her to pieces, to clarify that if I intend you to be alone here, then you shall be. Should I do that, Jedi?"

Palpatine waited, still fuming; it took several seconds for the fragile, half-awake creature before him to realize that the threat was serious, several more for him to grasp that he would have to speak out to save his jailor, the person so diligently responsible for keeping him within the Emperor's reach.

He said nothing.

Perhaps he was learning—that compassion would always be his weakness, and Palpatine would always use it against him.

Unless he curtailed it himself; _chose_ not to be used.

Had he come far enough to quell that defect?

 

For Luke, the realization had just hit his sluggish mind with absolute clarity; that Mara wasn't being chastised because _she_ had spoken to someone. It wasn't the Emperor's ownership of Mara that was being threatened. The reproach was because she was speaking _to Luke_.

It was the Sith's ownership of _Luke_ which was being infringed—not Mara.

The distasteful comprehension had paralyzed him for long seconds before a tendril of Dark power had knifed through uneasy thoughts.

He sensed Palpatine call her through the Force, dull surprise registering at this though he'd known that she was in some way Force-sensitive.

They stared at each other for long moments, Luke's gaze emotionless, Palpatine's expectant, edged with excitement now. Neither spoke, the only sound that of the locks cycling open on the door, reverberating in the still silence.

The doors ground open and she walked in without hesitation, bowed expectantly. Palpatine didn't acknowledge her, his eyes still on Skywalker.

His face expressionless, Luke broke the gaze, looked away to the blood-red sunset.

Distantly, he began to sense the static build of Dark power around him, the drag like steel against steel, the transcendental inrush of energy as Palpatine called the Force to him, setting Luke's nerves on edge...

Saw his hands begin to lift…

"No." His voice was quiet and low, but he knew the Emperor had heard it.

For a moment, he thought that Palpatine would do it anyway; that he had committed himself to the act and now did not wish to deny it.

Then the Sith relaxed just slightly, the energy dissipating in a haze of sharp mental static, and he smiled easily at the woman, showing ruined teeth. "Thank you, Mara. You may leave."

She frowned, obviously aware that something of import had just happened to which she was not privy. But she was well-trained; she didn't speak, only bowed low, backstepped and left, the door grinding closed behind her.

"It would have been a pity to lose her; she is a very good assassin. I trained her from childhood."

Luke blinked slowly, knowing absolutely that he would have killed her; murdered in cold blood the woman whom he had raised from a child.

How could he possibly combat this being who held life so lightly? What could hold against this? The Sith knew exactly how to manipulate him.

Was he right; was compassion a weakness?

Palpatine resettled into the chair beneath the windows, the scarlet sunset bathing his pallid skin in a blood-red wash. "What are you thinking, Jedi?"

"Don't you know?" Luke heard the bitterness in his own voice.

 

  
Palpatine held his Jedi's gaze, unfazed, enjoying the discourse. "Compassion _is_ your greatest weakness, as I have just illustrated to you. In your position, I would have let her die rather than ask a boon of my adversary."

Did he not understand what a vulnerability he held? Yes—yet still he cradled it to him, knowing that Palpatine would use it against him.

This was Palpatine's forte, and he delighted in it; to see the weakness in every soul. Even the slightest crack could be prized open and exploited. Compassion could so easily be turned to paralyzing impotence.

He would cure his Jedi of this most human failing—it was not for their kind.

 

  
Luke bristled at the Emperor's casual invasion of his thoughts, but not as much as previously. It no longer outraged him; he'd anticipated it, even expected it. His thoughts were no longer his own, the effort of shielding them too great to maintain now.

Only the precious few remained safely hidden.

"It cost me nothing," he said at last.

"Yet."

Luke shrugged his acceptance of this. "If you think me so weak then why am I here?"

"It amuses me. And I see raw potential."

"I will not turn." Luke's tone was absolute though it lacked bite, made slight and frail by drugs and tiredness.

"I did not ask you to."

"Liar." Palpatine paused, and for a moment Luke tensed, expecting a violent reaction. To him, this was the worst insult he could throw at the Emperor, yet Palpatine seemed not at all offended.

"No. I do not need you to turn—it is sufficient that you are here. With me."

  
 

Palpatine smiled at the frown which crossed the boy's face; at the fact that he _almost_ asked the question, then caught himself and look away. Still he answered the unspoken query; it was important that the boy knew.

"Because you are mine. You always were, no matter where they hid you or what treason and lies they filled your head with. I am reclaiming that which belongs to me by rights."

Again the boy's gaze came to his, but again he wouldn't ask. "I will not turn."

Palpatine noted that willful, contrary mental stance which his Jedi had so adamantly wrapped about himself since he had been trapped here, despite all of Palpatine's reasonable, refined cajoling and sharp, harsh derision.

Every session together the same, and he relished them every one, the opportunity to gradually enforce his doctrine, to throw focused intent against inflexible principles, prying every frailty open, knowing that he was slowly, irredeemably eroding the foundation beneath, poisoning the boy's hope, withering his conviction until all that was left was that obstinate will, guarding nothing, searching for a purpose, waiting to be directed as _he_ saw fit.

The Sith loosed a feral smile. "Then this is your life now. These rooms, our talks."

He watched the boy blanch at that, despairing, but... "I will not turn."

"You are in a prison within a prison within a prison. These rooms are a keep designed to hold a Jedi. The Tower beyond consists of only my most loyal guards and staff. The Palace is a fortress which has never been breached. No one on this planet will help you—everyone here is allowed by my sanction. Everything here— _everything_ —is under my explicit control. You will never again see another living being. Only you and I, only these rooms."

"Why? Why not just kill me?" It was almost a plea.

"I have no need to, and it would be a waste."

"I'll kill you, given the chance." The fact that he was sitting in a weary huddle did nothing to diminish the hostile intent in those words.

Yes, there was something of his father about the boy...a little more each day. The change was wonderfully, inexorable subtle, day on day, week on week. Palpatine smiled inwardly, aware that his Jedi was being ground down; that the boy knew it too despite his show of resolve. His willingness to sacrifice himself or force Palpatine to do the same only underlined his desperation.

"You will feel differently, eventually," he assured, confident.

"No."

"How stubborn you are, my friend; how single-minded. How useful a trait it will be when you serve me."

"You said you didn't need me." His Jedi didn't look up, but the challenge was evident in his voice nonetheless.

"I don't need, I _want_. There is a difference. I need Vader to keep my Empire subjugated, but he lacks the vision and subtlety to be of any further use to me. He is…" Palpatine paused, ochre eyes rolling in wry consideration, "as I said once before...akin to using a blunt instrument."

 

  
Luke raised his chin, offended by the words and the tone and the very presence of the man before him. "I thought you favored that approach. The Death Star was hardly subtle."

He had the satisfaction of seeing a brief shadow pass over the Emperor's face at his mention of this expensive failure, but it was only momentary.

"Like Lord Vader, it was an instrument of its time." The Sith smiled. "And it achieved something far more valuable in its destruction than it ever could have in continued service."

Luke held his eye...

"It flushed you out of hiding." The Emperor leaned forward, as if to impart a secret. "I would have traded half my fleet for that."

"You should have told me." Luke's tone was dry.

"You should have realized," Palpatine countered.

Luke only turned away.

"But now the time for such broad sweeps is over. I have my Empire…"

"Not nearly as completely as you believe."

"On the contrary," the Sith assured. "The pockets of resistance are becoming smaller and smaller. The nature of my Empire is changing. I no longer need a blunt instrument; I want something with more precision. Something capable of carrying my Empire forward—my creation, my genesis… my vision. You are a unique Jedi from an unprecedented line—the final generation of such. Greater power balanced with greater perception—a finer weapon. I find this combination…intriguing."

It was this discomforting mix of praise and de-humanization which Palpatine often practiced now, knowing how uneasy it made Luke—that he had no answer to it, no idea of how to respond.

"I will not turn." Luke was aware that he fell back on these words often now, when maintaining a dialogue became too tiring, or when he simply wanted to provoke.

"I think you will; I've watched you for a long time, my friend, and I know you well. I know how your mind works. I know what drives you and what holds you back, I know what moves and disturbs you. I know your boundaries and the limits you have yet to reach. Now, here, I see your defenses crumbling… You will be a great asset, when I command your obedience."

"I will not…"

"As you have said."

 

 

Palpatine felt his annoyance beginning to grate at the boy's intractable stubbornness, well aware of what he was doing and was unwilling to give him control of the conversation so easily. "I want your power and your servitude. But I do not _need_ it. I can wait as long as it takes. I enjoy our little discussions."

His Jedi's expression remained mild, his eyes elsewhere, not rising to the bait. "I will not turn."

Now the Emperor felt his anger begin to heat at the boy's obstinacy. "Of course you will," he spat out. "You know yourself the words are a lie. Repeating them will not make them true or build a defense against me."

 

  
Palpatine's contention burned through Luke's stubborn, weary denials. _Was it the truth?_

Luke knew that his reserves were crumbling, that he had been eating into them, physically and mentally, since Bespin.

He could sense Palpatine's sureness, his confidence… _was it the truth?_

He didn't know anymore. He was tired and confused and frustrated, struggling just to stay awake. Tired of fighting when nobody gave a damn. Nobody cared anymore.

_Was it the truth?_

Was he handing Palpatine control by holding to futile ethics? Could he only fight fire with fire?

_Was that the truth?_

He had expected a quick end; to say no and be killed. Not this—isolated and disarmed by his own decision. Obligation tying his hands, holding him here far more surely than these walls ever could.

And Palpatine, always preaching, always provoking. Sewing little seeds of doubt and watching them germinate despite Luke's best efforts to ignore and refute.

Always so reasonable, so logical. So ruthless. Death of a thousand cuts.

He could free his own hands, stop this at any time and he knew it… but the price would be Han's life...

 

  
Palpatine smiled, watching closely, delighting in seeing his Jedi's resolve slip ever further, in knowing that his Jedi saw it too.

It had been a long, hard task to prize him from his allies, who had fallen over themselves in their haste to desert him when his precious little Princess had begun to whisper his lineage to others.

A hard task to crumble his blind belief in his teachers, who had shown him only one path, fearful that to show him more would have tempted and tainted him, and in doing so hobbled the only thing which could have saved them, limiting this potentially powerful Jedi so completely and leaving him ripe for the taking because of their own intolerant, paranoid misgivings.

He would show them all the incredible power which they had unknowingly held. Power which could have brought an Empire down, if only they'd had the presence of mind to use it.

And his Jedi—how foolish he must feel now to have trusted them; how betrayed.

All he had left now was himself—his faith in his own ability to know right from wrong, in his own self-control—and even that was crumbling here, in this carefully managed environment.

Now was the time to begin testing this last support. To see if his Jedi could be provoked into a reaction. This was Palpatine's final challenge. He had already seen what the boy was capable of—now he needed to know what had spurred it.

"Why did you destroy the window?" he said, openly curious.

  
Luke slumped in the chair, hand supporting his head as he rubbed at his temples, tired beyond reason. "Did it inconvenience you?" he asked caustically.

"It did not inconvenience me in the slightest, Jedi," Palpatine said, amused. "It did, however, clarify the extent of your abilities. I had been unsure until then. Now I know what you are capable of—and what not."

Luke remained silent for long seconds, forcing himself awake now, all of his awareness committed to subtly barring access to his thoughts. He needed to get off this topic, afraid that in his present state he would unwittingly give something away.

"I would say the same of you—your medics have been very busy. Where did they get a sample of my blood? They must have had it for a while to synthesize that kind of drug. I assume it's tailor-made?"

  
Leaning back, Palpatine settled into the carved chair, taking his time to reply, supremely confident, aware of how much that grated on the boy's taut nerves.

"Yes. It's gratifying to see how well it worked in its latest derivation... probably less so for you, I imagine." The drug would have been a surprise, Palpatine knew. The boy would have taken a knock to his confidence to realize just how easily Palpatine could control him if he wished, wary of having it used against him again.

And he was wonderfully resentful now—at having been controlled so easily, at having had to back down so completely.

"The sample?" his Jedi prompted, not allowing himself to be pulled in.

Palpatine noted the change in purpose—that this was active participation; the boy was no longer avoiding, he was consciously choosing to direct the conversation. Why?

"You would be surprised where I have spies and agents placed. And where I don't…" He shrugged dismissively. "Well then, there is always sentient nature; greed oils many cogs."

"Not in the Alliance," his Jedi maintained, completely sure, finger tapping against the chair arm in consideration, his other hand still against his chin, supporting his lolling head.

"Indeed? Then I must have an agent there." Would he realize the extent of the game? Not in this state… Still, Palpatine waited, curious as to what he would untangle.

  
Spurred by Palpatine's sanctimonious gaze, Luke considered long moments. "No one I know."

"Of course not."

"Not a medic. The Alliance use droids, and you wouldn't trust a construct—plus any alteration to its program would be too easy to detect." He considered… tired as he was, his mind raced as it always did to connect the pieces, remembering the undiscovered mole in his Alliance Cell. "Command staff have access, but…" Luke dismissed it as unthinkable even as he said it, looking for other means. "A tech maybe; someone who has access to the complete data store. They could pull medical information files and they'd have access to decrypt codes. Data Support maybe—or place them in Comms... A slicer could get data out with reasonable success, hidden in existing transmissions."

"Well done, Jedi," Palpatine congratulated, a note of appreciative finality in his voice.

Luke watched the old man for long moments… because he knew him now. For all that Palpatine claimed knowledge of Luke, it had come at a cost; Luke knew _him_ too. Could _sense_ his sudden wish to curtail this game, much as he tried to hide it…

There was something more… something he didn't wish to share…

"If it was someone in Data, they would have full access to existing stores." Luke's eyes narrowed at the realization. "Which means they could change past entries seamlessly."

Palpatine's eyes narrowed, clearly believing that Luke was realizing entirely too much now, piecing together more than anticipated—an obviously unwelcome development. "Your Princess still betrayed you."

And finally, it all fit, inexplicable fragments falling into perfect place for Luke. He knew the obvious, but knowing Palpatine as he did now, it hadn't been enough. There had to be more—it all had to interconnect somehow. It wasn't sufficient to achieve what was needed, the Sith had to twist it somewhere for his own amusement…and to have Luke bargain for the release of Leia—to have him surrender his own freedom in exchange for the woman who carried the information which would condemn him—finally tied everything together.

"That's why you wanted to free her." It was neither question nor accusation, just a statement of fact. "You linked me to the spy, didn't you? You'd already placed something in existing data stores, but you knew it wouldn't be enough. You needed someone they'd trust, someone beyond reproach to carry back more information—enough to tie all your carefully placed lies together, mixed in with that one truth, to make it seem beyond question. That's why you were willing to let the others go too—to release just her would have been too suspicious. But you made me fight for it, didn't you? This was all part of your little scheme."

He was wide awake now, hearing the accusation in his own voice, the bitterness. Hollow though, strangely empty. As if he were going through the motions with little true feeling.

"None of which changes the fact that she betrayed you. I gave her the information but she had a choice, Jedi. She could have remained silent."

Luke rubbed his hand over gritty eyes, surprised by how little anger he felt—only frustrated resignation. "You did this to trap me here—to break me away from the Alliance."

"To clarify the true extent of their loyalty."

"And where is yours?" Luke accused.

"I do not give loyalty, Jedi. I demand it."

Luke shook his head. "I am not my father."

  
The grin which came to Palpatine's lips was instantly quashed, but the victory remained; because it was the first time the boy had referred to Vader as such, the first time he had admitted any connection with his father. Had he even realised, in the heat of the moment? Palpatine pressed the advantage, giving him no time to think.

"Of course you are. More than you could possibly know. You have his willful stubbornness, his determination, his single-mindedness... You even look like him. You walk the path he chose…"

"I am _not_ Sith!" his Jedi shouted, half-rising in fierce denial.

Palpatine stared for long moments into that stormy expression, genuinely captivated… When he finally spoke, it was quite calmly, as if the boy had not reacted at all.

"You have his eyes…as angry and as hard and as cold. That wonderful, biting blue- like ice in darkness."

The boy blinked in bewilderment, completely distracted by the unexpected observation.

"Did Kenobi not tell you that?" Palpatine continued, his tone more fascinated than denouncing. "I am surprised. Obi-Wan and your father…they were like brothers, they truly were. Yet when your father defied Kenobi he tracked him down with no—"

"I don't want to hear your lies," his Jedi cut in, and Palpatine smiled at the venom in his voice.

"The truth is a difficult thing to—"

" _Your version_ of the truth."

"The truth."

The boy only shook his head. "I don't believe a word you say."

"When have I ever lied to you, Jedi?"

"You lied about Leia,"

"I told the truth."

"I _realized_ the truth. You told me only what you needed to manipulate me."

"I _made_ the truth clear—the _real_ truth…" Palpatine paused, realizing that the boy was leading him off-subject again. He was becoming better at this kind of avoidance, the distractions more subtle now, requiring Palpatine to respond or cede the argument. He paused, searching to pull the boy back to his own agenda.

"How can the truth be a manipulation? You are free to come to your own conclusions."

"I'll never be free here," the boy dismissed, making Palpatine smile at his comprehension of that fact.

"You would never have been free with Kenobi," he said easily, very sure. "He simply cloaked his manipulations differently. It is the lot of all in your bloodline. Power demands a price—as it did with your father."

Palpatine glanced away, as if remembering now, his voice benign and enticing, drawing Luke in. "Obi-Wan was your father's teacher and his friend—his mentor. Your father trusted him as completely as you do now. And yet the scars your father carries…Obi-Wan cut him—quite literally—to pieces. Then he stood by and he watched your father burn, injured and helpless. Did he not tell you that, your venerable Jedi Knight?"

The boy remained silent, collapsing back down in reluctant fascination, unable to turn away.

" _I_ saved your father's life. Obi-Wan left him to a slow, agonizing death on Mustafar. Left him to go searching for you—for your mother."

He turned back to the boy now, whose eyes were locked to his own, skepticism and suspicion giving way to more basic emotions—those of a child whose mother was lost.

That most primal, elemental fear.

Yellow eyes held ice-blue captive in a way they never had before—because this was deeper than any doctrine, deeper than any conscious acceptance or refusal. This was the moment— _this_ was the moment to push. To break those brittle barriers—to crumble them whilst he faltered, every shield, every defense powerless against this most devastating of weapons—the _truth_ …

 _Now_ …he would listen…

"They buried her… just days later. You were never mentioned—nor was the cause of her death." Palpatine left this implication hanging for the boy to consider…

The mass of conflicting feelings summed up in those blue eyes was gratifying beyond words. Palpatine carefully kept his own expression neutral, giving nothing for the boy to feed off, nothing to react against. This must be his response, _his_ feelings…

"I don't believe you," he whispered at last, desolate.

"Every word is the truth."

The boy stared, simply stared at Palpatine, a chaos of emotions grappling for release behind still eyes, muscles tight, body tense.

All that feeling, all those wildly conflicting emotions held so tightly in check by one already so fragile, so volatile. It was intoxicating to the Sith; captivating.

How close he skirted to the edge of losing control now, how compelling those emotions, driving him to the brink of coherence, testing every restraint. Palpatine could only watch in fascinated silence, enraptured. Sure that Skywalker would give them free reign at any moment…

The boy remained motionless for a long time; the intense, portentous stillness with a kinetic energy all its own, like the stillness of the calm before the storm. Palpatine watched in rapt anticipation, hands closing to fists, nails scraping fine grooves into the polished arm of the chair, waiting…

Very slowly and deliberately, the action costing him every ounce of willpower and restraint, Skywalker rose and walked in silence from the room, the Force swinging the heavy doors silently closed behind him.

Palpatine waited in the mute silence for long minutes, his breathing shallow, gazing unfocused at the spot where his Jedi had been, listening to his own heart strong against his ribs, the brittle stillness heady with profound expectation.

It was a long time before he felt the need to stand, reluctant to abandon the intensity of the moment, knowing it was not yet diffused.

Eventually he rose and left without looking back.

He had almost reached his own apartments before he sensed the moment, like a silent scream, like a storm released into the darkness. An expansion of the Force, profound and unchecked, lasting no more than seconds but wild and feral and desperately lost.

His expectant grin turned to a depraved, delighted laugh as he walked, Mara flinching in that same instant against the unbridled power of the act.

 

 

 

 

When Mara Jade returned with the first light of dawn the following morning, it was with a certain trepidation. That she had sensed the release of the Force last night was rare in the extreme, which meant it must have been a momentous act, either in deed or in emotion, leaving her to wonder what destruction Skywalker had wrought in that instant—what physical evidence would remain of the shattered composure he had loosed in the night.

She walked in uneasy silence through the long, still shadows of the hall, wishing that she'd had the presence of mind to vary her routine and stop off at Ops before coming here today to view the security footage of the previous night. Wondering why she had felt the urge to rush here first.

The solid, hefty doors locked closed behind her as she made her way through the brooding gloom of the cavernous dining room, the massive doors of the empty drawing room swinging shut behind her as she kept walking closer, the Red Guard releasing the lock cycle as she approached his room, the hulking doors swinging ponderously open…

Onto a scene of total destruction.

Mara stepped haltingly forward into the room, unrecognizable in its devastation.

Everything—every single item—had been reduced to wrecked fragments. They littered the chamber in a mass of scattered, shattered debris, no single piece larger than splintered kindling, nothing recognizable. Chairs, tables, bed, consoles…the blankets, the drapes—everything was destroyed, plaster gouged from the walls, fractured fragments embedded into them, the room reduced to little more than a wrecked shell.

And in the center of it all, sitting quietly in cross-legged meditation, still wearing the long, dark dressing gown and sleep-trousers he'd woken in yesterday, was Skywalker.

He turned, mild and unruffled, as if nothing at all had changed.

"Hey, Red."

And there— _there_ was the change. In his clipped voice, in the intensity of his eyes, in his whole studiously calm demeanor.

She froze, the hairs rising on the back of her neck as he stood and walked easily toward her, his unfastened gown dragging behind him, its hem ripped and tattered. The debris before him scattered to clear a path, though he neither looked nor gestured at it.

"I'll need to see Solo today. Arrange it. And I need a haircut."

He had the distant unruffled composure of a soldier after battle, struggling to come back from the edge. Several fine cuts had sliced into the skin on his face and neck and bled dry, unnoticed.

He paused as he drew level with her, tilting his head down so that his eyes met hers. In that moment they were incredibly blue, at once desperate and powerful and recklessly mercurial, leaving Mara unsure as to what he would do next, how he would react.

He leaned in, his close presence overbearing, and it took Mara every inch of resolve to resist the urge to back step, unsure of how to handle him in this state.

"You might need to clear up in there," he whispered conspiratorially, as if sharing some private joke.

Then he walked past her to the tall windows of the drawing room to stand with his back to her, staring out at the dawn.

"Looks like rain," he observed casually to no one in particular.

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

 

** CHAPTER THIRTEEN **

 

 

When Han arrived at the familiar tall, heavy doors to Luke's opulent prison, it was to a scene of organized bedlam. There were about three times as many guards as normal, the two sets of heavy blast doors which marked the entrance to the sprawling apartments uncharacteristically shut and heavily guarded. Large roll-away boxes lined the wide main corridor within, filled with what looked like explosion debris, so fine and unrecognizable were the fragments. As they took off his binders and cycled open the heavy bolts to the rooms the kid was imprisoned in, Han glanced to the roomy, unused office opposite, now crammed with even more of the boxed debris.

"Kid's been busy, huh?" he asked his guards, who looked ahead in stony silence.

He'd spent the last two weeks alternately worrying that something major had happened to the kid, then reassuring himself that nothing would—that the Emperor thought he needed Luke for whatever the hell reason, and so he wouldn't do anything stupid. Still, after nine straight days without his usual visit he'd taken to pacing the cell and lying awake, running all kinds of scenarios through his head between fits of banging on the cell door, though nobody came.

So when the damned door had finally slid open today, he'd been so eager to see the kid that he'd stepped forward, hands held out before him for the customary binders, grinning like an idiot.

Then he'd fretted all over again on the way up here, bracing himself for every possible situation.

Except this one, of course. He broke step as he was marched through the empty dining hall to the locked doors of the cavernous room beyond, staring at the massive damage being repaired about the center three windows in the long, tall run to the dining room wall. Whole panes had been removed, the plaster about them chipped away to show for the first time the massive fortification hidden within the walls, organic steel girders and massive alloy slabs set against each other with the reinforced transparisteel windows bonded back into the main structure, the fine monofilaments within running not just through the panes themselves but welded into the body of the frame, and that bonded into the main alloy structure beyond. The jumpy guards pushed him forward as he slowed, taking up position around the drawing room door before it was released.

He entered the vast arch-ceiling drawing room, where the oppressive silence of the huge, impersonal space was being chipped at by a constant stream of noise from the bedroom beyond, mingled with the muffled conversations of many voices.

Rising, the kid turned casually, eyes fixing on Solo.

Something was different—Han knew immediately, though he didn't know what. Something about Luke... He looked…different somehow. Not just the clothes—Han was getting used to seeing Luke like this, in perfectly fitted, expensive clothing, always flawlessly tailored. Hand-made boots, luxurious, hand-stitched shirts in vinesilk or cortal linen, presenting an overall appearance which was groomed and casually affluent, so very much in keeping with the prosperous excesses of Palace life, whether the kid wanted that or not. His hair had been cut short too, since Han had last been allowed to see him—very short.

But it was none of these things which made him seem so different today. It was his manner, his eyes, the wariness of the guards who tip-toed around him.

The way that for some reason, Han already felt he should do the same.

Then the kid walked toward him, smiling broadly… and he was Luke again…just…with an edge, maybe.

Han opened his arms in automatic answer. It was this moment, these few brief seconds when they leaned in, patting each other's backs in a friendly embrace, that they were able to exchange a brief burst of whispered information.

 _"We're leaving this week. Late,"_ Luke murmured, and Han nodded silently as they pulled apart.

"Been busy, huh?" he said casually, gesturing to the room beyond.

"No—not at all."

This close, Han noticed that Luke's face was covered with fine cuts and grazes. He frowned in silent question, but the kid merely turned away, as if he hadn't noticed, his manner restless and wired.

"Come in why don't you, Red," he invited without turning.

Han glanced back to the slim, trim redhead who was walking in from the bedroom beyond to monitor the conversation, as she always did when Han was there. Today though, his eyes were drawn to a glimpse of the bedroom beyond, completely empty, a haze of dust in the air.

Han gestured to Luke's short, military haircut. "Someone get a little carried away with the clippers?"

Luke glanced away again, vaguely dismissive. "I think it's the only cut they know around here."

 _Doesn't want to talk about that either, then._ Han frowned. "You okay?"

The kid's voice remained completely neutral. "I'm fine."

" 'Cos you seem a little…wired," Han pushed.

"No," Luke replied.

Han glanced uneasily at Jade, who held his gaze for a second too long, then turned away.

Luke's voice drew Han's eyes back. "Seems like an age since you were here last. We have a lot to talk about."

Han didn't miss the implication—that if they were getting out of here, they had a great deal they needed to communicate in a short visit without once mentioning anything directly.

"So—how's life below decks?" Luke asked, that same dispassionate tone to his voice.

"Good, good. I was moved this morning from a small white box on Level Nine to a small white box on Level Seven…which is nice."

"Well, you know what they say about variety," Luke said. "In fact, maybe I'll come visit you, next time."

Han raised his eyebrows slightly at this, knowing that Luke was referring to the escape. It seemed an odd way round to work it, when Han had traveled the path up through the Palace so often, yet Luke had never been outside these three rooms. "What, and deprive me of my regular walk?"

Luke paused a second; considering, Han knew. "Maybe we can meet halfway—I'm sure I can arrange that." He half-turned to his wary jailor. "What d'you say, Red? Trip out next week?"

She merely raised her eyebrows in silence.

"She loves that idea," Luke said dryly, turning back to Han. "She's very excited."

Solo kept his eyes on Jade. "How can you tell?"

"She raised both eyebrows."

Jade turned to walk smoothly to a chair some distance away—to give some appearance of privacy when it was no such thing, Han knew. How could the kid stand this, to be watched all the time?

When he turned back to Luke, the kid's eyes and thoughts were still on her. "Red thinks I'm gonna do something stupid today," he observed, tone laconic, more of a taunt to the silent redhead than it was an explanation to Han.

Aware that he'd subconsciously stopped a good five paces away from Luke, Han wondered how the kid would take it if he pointed out that he was with Jade on this one…

Immediately, Luke turned to him, eyes sharp and searching, and Han knew he didn't have to say it out loud. But the challenge died unsaid as, quick as it had appeared, the momentary anger was gone and Luke only laughed, turning to walk to the tall windows.

"Well, you're both wrong," he said easily, eyes to the horizon. "I'm fine."

The brittle silence hung for long moments…

"So..." Luke turned back suddenly. "How's life on Level..?"

"Seven," Han repeated, trying to keep his reply casual. "Minus seven I'm guessing, from the distinct lack of windows down there. See, you got this whole fresh air and daylight thing going on up here. We don't get that below decks."

"No, but you get the weekly walk through the Palace. That's a good ten minutes of freedom."

There was the slightest of questions in the last, and Han reacted accordingly. "Twenty minutes easy—but then I make the most of it. Maybe ten if you were running flat out. Plus the enclision grids at the Tower entrance slow us down a lot, gives me some time to sightsee. And the security checks every three—"

"That's enough," Jade said simply.

Both men fell silent for a few moments, Luke half-turning back.

Han kept his head down, surreptitiously trying to look at the fine grazes all over the kid's face, uneasy at his mercurial manner.

"You look tired," he said at last, genuine concern in his voice.

"Just sick of being cooped up," Luke dismissed evenly. "I'm ready for some fresh air."

Han nodded, his concern not settled a whit. "You know," he said at last, turning to look out at the city, "last time I was on Coruscant I was complaining because I had nowhere to stay. Now I'm in the Imperial Palace, no less. Admittedly not the best room in the house, but still…"

Luke turned sharply, understanding. "How long ago was that?"

"Four or five years." _Not too long_ was the inference.

"Doing what?"

"Dropping off," Han said vaguely.

"Where?"

"Tyren Islands—a district actually, near the equator. There's a few spots, there." Now wasn't the time to be giving out co-ordinates. "Didn't like 'em so much. I guess they were okay for a short stop, but too hot to stay too long," Han added pointedly.

"I like the heat, you know that," Luke reassured.

"You've just been in it too long. It gets like that," Han said, understanding the double meaning and keeping his tone casual.

Clearly understanding, Luke half-glanced to Jade, doubtless wishing to disperse the conversation a little for her ears. "No—desert born and bred. I think the novelty of snow on Hoth wore off about the same time as you lowered the _Falcon's_ landing ramp."

"You were the one who kept volunteering for perimeter checks and dragging me out with you," Han accused good-naturedly, glad to see the kid smile, if only fractionally.

"It was a rota," Luke said easily, turning back to the window.

"You were the Unit Commander—you could have left your own name out, y'know."

Luke shrugged dismissively. "I liked Yavin though—and Circarpous. Liked the greenery." His eyes turned down to the verdant roof gardens of the Main Palace below. "Like the gardens here…I'd like to visit them one day."

It took a second for Han to work this abrupt change of conversation out, then he glanced down, affecting a disinterested air. "Well, unlike me, you're in the right place. You can't get to them from the Main Palace, they're completely sealed off. I don't think you can even get through—"

"Stop it," Jade interrupted, editing the conversation again, more cautious than usual. Luke turned quizzically but she wasn't giving ground. "Stop discussing how to get from the Towers to the Palace."

"I already know how to get from the Towers to the Palace," Luke said dismissively, turning away.

 

Glancing once to Solo, who was stood a cagey few steps back from his own friend, clearly aware on some level that something was different, Mara narrowed her eyes at Luke, picking up the gauntlet he'd thrown down in his casually dismissive claim. "And you would know that how?"

"Palpatine won't allow droids in the Towers because he believes that if he can't read them in the Force, he doesn't trust them. But if he's not the only one with that ability, being able to read every sentient mind that's here is as much a weakness as it is a strength." Luke gestured with a sideways glance to the bedroom, coolly matter-of-fact. "Everyone working in that room came up through the Palace into the Tower this morning; it's in the head of every single person who walks through here, Red. Yourself included."

It wasn't quite a challenge, but Mara knew Solo too could hear the short fuse when Luke spoke, which was rare enough to make him shift uneasily.

"You can't read my mind," she dismissed, the barest hint of uncertainty in her voice.

"You think those shields stop me? They don't."

"Liar."

He half-turned to her, his face hidden by the bright corona of daylight behind him. "When have I ever lied to you, Red?"

She turned away, unwilling to be pulled into an argument with him when he was so uncharacteristically volatile. But he wouldn't let her off so easily.

"Worried?" He had a wicked grin on his face, but she wasn't about to be brow-beaten by him.

"Hardly," she lied.

"You should be," he said simply, voice amused and brittle. The uneasy truth of his next words stopped her cold: "I am."

He held her eye for a second too long before his gaze flicked away, all his attention focused on Solo, who took a half step back without even realizing.

Mara was left to study him closely, no longer listening to what they were saying. He was slipping, increment by infinitesimal increment. Too long under her master's influence, frustrated and constrained and provoked, he was losing perspective and gaining an edge. Volatile and erratic, quicksilver fast.

And he knew it.

 

 

 

 

Vader walked through the towering, lavishly decorated halls which led to the Throne Room, grinding his jaw in distaste as dignitaries and Moffs paused in whatever malicious whispers they were spreading among the Royal Houses to bow lightly and politely as he passed, though he never once acknowledged them.

He had been summoned to Court, something he disliked intensely, the pomp and ceremony which his Master had instigated to keep the fractious Royal Houses in line grating against his reined-in distaste. He wasn't stupid—wasn't blind to what his Master did. The intricate formalities and etiquettes of Court were designed expressly to intimidate, to instill insecurity into anyone coming into that most exclusive of circles, to dissuade anyone without prior knowledge from daring to intrude. Thus an elite was formed who had a vested interest in maintaining their own position and therefore by extension, the Emperor's, whilst Palpatine kept close to himself all those who held any power—and he made it his business to know them all.

Before one entered the Throne Room, one must travel through the Attendant's Hall, an equally large and lavish space, three stories high and awash with the constant chatter of the exclusive language of Archaic Coruscanti, adopted by Palpatine for his Court, as well as endless native languages. The vast, magnificent hall remained forever crowded out by literally hundreds of lackeys and sycophants, all petitioning for entry to Court in hope of gaining the Emperor's patronage, which was always strictly rationed—though when one was in his favor, there were no limits to his generosity. But in order to gain such a position of favor, one must do it at the expense of another, and risk either the Emperor's amusement or his wrath. 'Dead Man's Shoes,' they called it. Fools, every one of them, for trying; they deserved all that they reaped.

The vast chamber fell to an observant hush as Vader strode through it, looking neither left nor right, having no time for the petty power-plays of these contemptible parasites. They were everything he had once thought his Master would remove, as the Old Republic groaned under the weight of its own traditions. Everything he'd once hoped to have the power to remove himself. Now there seemed more of them every day, crowded into these halls and this Palace, exchanging power for money or money for power. He hated them, every one, their weakness was sickening—but no less than his own for tolerating them.

The grand, floor-to-ceiling double-doors swung open onto the Throne Room where his Master held Court, scarlet-robed Royal Guards stepping back to allow Vader entrance—he was never made to wait. He walked forward without breaking stride into the whispering shadows of the lofty, imposing, expansive hall beyond, the gathered assemblage turning to view the new entrant, lowering their heads in polite acknowledgement of his status.

The Throne Room itself was a statement of Imperial wealth and supremacy on the grandest scale, a cavernous audience chamber whose carved, fluted pillars and crenulations were picked out with thousands upon thousands of hand-laid sheets of rose and yellow gold, banded striations of vermillion and cobalt blue threaded into its subtle lustre in flowing, fluid arcs and scrolls on the grandest scale. The distant vaulted ceiling was an immense terrazzo mosaic of darkest midnight blue, a perfect representation of Coruscant's night sky beyond the Palace rendered in fine gold strapwork.

Flanking this grand space to either side, divided from the main chamber by a series of ornate, gilded sliding panels, were less formal but still equally sumptuous private Receiving Rooms, only reachable by walking through the Throne Room itself, and only ever accessible to the very favored few. By opening or closing the wall-long runs of these elaborate sliding panels, it was possible to create several stately, intimate receiving rooms or one vast, impressive hall, an ornate raised dais at its far end.

On this dais which Vader now approached, stood Palpatine's precious Sunburst Throne, the extinct Jedi Order's vaunted 'Seat of Prophesy,' taken from the Jedi Temple before its destruction. Set above its subjects as Vader's Master always believed he was, the centuries old throne refracted subtle light about the dais from the beaten, hammered surface of the precious metal sunburst which formed the backrest, the infamous Son of Suns prophesy engraved in fine, archaic script upon it, the only copy of the prophesy in existence. Had Vader had his way, the prophesy which had hung like a chain about his neck his whole life would have been destroyed along with the chair into which it was carved.

But he didn't; he never would have. So he came to a slow halt on the half-circle of Terassotti marble before the dais, its mirror-half set into the raised dais itself, completing the circle. Its inlaid design, a pale cream circle with a russet red center set with a complex filigree in muted blue-grey, a second russet and blue-grey motif inlaid at regular intervals around its outer edge, was painfully, offensively familiar to Vader from his youth. He often wondered if anyone else recognized it as the floor of the venerated Jedi Council Chamber; probably not—who was left alive to know?

And it would, he knew, give his Master a great deal of satisfaction to have desecrated it so—to know that his throne now rested on the floor that he would once never have been allowed to stand upon. And as Vader knelt on the half-circle set into the floor before the dais, eyes lowered and back bent, gazing at the floor which he had once stood upon as a Jedi, he wondered…

Did that too fill his Master with cold amusement?

He had always sworn that if he ever rose to Emperor he would have this floor ripped up and destroyed—broken down to dust. If he rose to Emperor.

But the floor remained, and he still bent on one knee each time he came here. And he knew now that his wish would never be fulfilled. It had outlasted a thousand generations of Jedi—it would outlast this one Sith.

It gave Vader some small modicum of pleasure to think that it would outlast his Master, too—even here.

"Lord Vader." Palpatine lounged upon his throne when everyone before him was made to stand. No one sat in Court—no one save himself. He loved his power, Vader knew. It gave him no greater pleasure, than to wield it.

"What is thy bidding, my Master?" he asked, eyes to that familiar floor.

"Rise, my friend, rise," the Emperor bid him magnanimously. "Everything is proceeding as planned."

Vader remained silent, knowing instantly the true subject of this conversation, but unwilling to play these pointless word games with his Master. Though he knew that Palpatine was right; the boy balanced at the brink…but something had held him back thus far. Some sense of duty or self-restraint which had always eluded Vader. Or perhaps it was simple stubbornness—in that he and his son were very much alike.

He saw himself reflected in his son a little more every day now. Saw the brittleness, the mercurial mood swings as Luke struggled to maintain control against endless provocations. Felt the boy's sense in the Force shift. The boy knew it too—and he fought it, struggling to maintain a connection to something which no longer existed. _Could not_ exist here, so close to the Emperor.

Vader looked to his Master, who had remained silent. Did he expect some answer? A confirmation of his own appraisal? If so, it would be the first time.

But then, Vader had a unique perspective in this. A certain…personal connection.

"Yes, Master," he said at last. "Though something remains intact—some limit yet to breach."

Palpatine narrowed his eyes in consideration of this, leaning forward and nodding slowly. He remained silent, staring at Vader for a long time, no longer considering his words, Vader knew, but considering him.

Vader held his peace, not wishing to be drawn further, already regretting his words, feeling that he had in some way betrayed the boy.

Before the arrival of his son, he would have spoken at this point, out of his own discomfort beneath his Master's searching gaze. Now he felt strangely empowered, his son's close presence, his connection and abilities, giving Vader confidence where before he had held none—not before his Master.

And as much as Vader tried to hide this, Palpatine knew it.

He shifted, raising barrier after barrier, realizing that he was too late. He had already given too much away—in facing his Master, in speaking his thoughts. In knowing at all.

Palpatine sat back again, some decision made.

"You have done well of late, Lord Vader, and I wish to reward you." The Emperor's words were quick and decisive.

Vader's eyes narrowed beneath his mask. Reward? His Master did not reward. What was the wily old Sith doing?

"I am restructuring the fleet to better reflect the needs of my Empire. You will be given new responsibilities and powers, my friend, in acknowledgment of your exemplary service."

"Yes, Master," Vader said uneasily, hearing the wary tone in his own deep voice. Looking for the trap.

"My Empire and my fleet are growing ever larger, Lord Vader. I have decreed that the fleet is to be divided for efficiency into two separate commands. One will be named the Core Fleet, responsible for all aspects of maintaining stability in the Core Systems and the Colonies. The second will be named the Rim Fleet and will administer to all other territories and responsibilities, including expanding Imperial space and policing all insurrection and rebellion, wherever it arises. The Rim Territories require a strong hand and a dedicated, loyal commitment to Imperial policy. Your experience and diligence in such areas has earned you the right to command this fleet in my name, my friend. I can think of no one I would trust more."

_Ah, there it was—the twist of the knife._

He was being sent away, Vader realized. Away from the Palace and away from his son. His Master needed time to bring the boy fully to heel—to guarantee his loyalty—and Vader's presence had clearly become an unwanted complication. The Rim territories were vast, and with no legitimate reason to bring his fleet into the Core Colonies, Vader would remain away for extended periods of time. Masterfully done...but then he had expected no less, from the man who brought a Republic to its knees.

Palpatine's thin lips twisted to a triumphant smile. "You are to go to the Meridian Sector immediately, my friend. Your fleet will be reassigned to join you in the coming days."

Vader's chin rose in shock. "Now?"

The Emperor paused to stare Vader down, and he held that hard glare for long seconds before he crumbled, the chains which held him too old and too ingrained to withstand.

"As you wish, Master."

Palpatine continued as if the interruption had never taken place. "There is word of a Rebel unit hiding in the Gion Asteroid belt. Hunt them down in my name as only you can, Lord Vader. Destroy them completely. This is the first mission for your new fleet, my friend, and you are to dedicate yourself to it completely. I know you will not fail me."

There was a finality to his last words which indicated dismissal, and Vader bowed low in response, backstepping before turning to leave.

The susurration of whispers as he strode down the vast hall set his teeth on edge. Blind, power-hungry fools; they saw only that the Emperor had rewarded the loyalty of his favored servant. Vader knew the truth; that this empty _honor_ had taken his son from him…and with it, any chance of securing the boy's loyalty.

Strangely, in that moment of realization, the former meant far more to him than the latter.

 

 

 

 

 

Eleven long weeks—stimulating and challenging and enervating—and dormant promise was finally shaping into workable potential. Inherent traits finally breaking through the pressure fractures. Palpatine rose, stalking forward around the table impeccably set for a dinner that was never eaten, reaching out to rest a hand on the boy's shoulder as he reached him, feeling him tense in wary reaction, the air in the cavernous chamber charged.

And his Jedi, his sense in the Force blaring out with agitation now, layers of repressed anger threatening to overcome all logic.

"This is why they would not teach you, my friend. Why they hid you in the desert and left you to rot. Surely you wondered why they delayed your training?"

Palpatine stopped behind the chair, his hand still on the boy's shoulder, the close proximity to such wildly fluid power drawing him in, urging him on, his voice a hissing whisper of feigned outrage. "They were afraid of you. Of what you would become."

He paused, aware that he was walking a fine line. He was pushing for a reaction to see just what the boy was capable of. Seeit for himself— _sense_ it. To know the extent of the power Vader's son could command; whether it was equal to his father. But at the same time, he wanted the boy to fail, to recognize the limitations of the lessons the Jedi had taught him. To realize that he could so easily move beyond them with Palpatine's aid.

Now was the time to take control, to push the advantage, to take the conversation where he willed it, knowing that the boy was too ensnared to turn away. "Why teach one whom some day you may have to destroy? Why not wait and watch? An untrained mind would be so much easier to…deal with, should the need arise. Why do you think Kenobi waited and watched from the desert as you grew?"

He leaned down to whisper, close enough that his breath caught against the boy's hair, bringing his head about slightly. "Would you like the truth, my friend?"

His Jedi took a breath to speak, but Palpatine pushed on before he had a chance to do so, fingers tightening about his shoulder to silence him. "The truth—the _real_ truth—is that your precious teacher was placed there to be your judge, jury and executioner."

The boy shook his head, though he did not pull away. "That's not true…"

"Then why did he not teach you?" Unseen, Palpatine smiled, knowing from the boy's tensed shoulders that he had delivered a blow.

Still the boy did not look, blue eyes searching before him as his mind sought an answer. "To protect me."

"From the Sith? We would not sense Kenobi, a trained Jedi Knight, yet they worried that we would sense you? You _know_ that cannot be. You _know_ the truth," Palpatine hissed. "Kenobi hid you in the desert, then he stepped back to watch you grow and struggle, trying to live within the confines of an ordinary life, knowing how this would constrain and frustrate you—yet he never divulged your heritage. Never once gave you any explanation, no matter how obscure. Why?"

Palpatine pressed down against the boy's shoulders, holding him captive, demanding his attention, his voice damning. "You say he wanted to protect you, but what better protection than knowledge, child? Potential Jedi were trained from infancy—yet he never attempted to do this, never once offered guidance, though he knew—he _knew_ —that this would someday happen...that it was inevitable. No. He did not teach you because he was waiting, my friend. Waiting to see what he would have to deal with—whether he would be able to control it. Because if he could not, then his mandate would have been to destroy it, rather than see it beyond his command."

It was, after all, exactly as Palpatine would have done.

"But he did teach me."

"Because they _had_ to gamble—they _had_ to take the risk that they could instill enough lies and manipulations to control you before I found you."

Palpatine smiled at the boy's confusion, played out in tensed muscles beneath his hands. As if realizing, his Jedi twisted free of the touch without rising, his sense part distaste, part resentment.

Palpatine only smiled, allowing the act, indulging the emotions; feeding them. Never a direct lie, only ever the truth—as Palpatine saw it. Always logical and plausible and compelling.

Whisperings of doubt were beginning to lodge in the boy's mind now, much as he tried to deny them, much as he declared them untrue. A thousand tiny cuts, a thousand blows, quickly landed. If only one drew blood then the damage was done. And he had drawn blood, Palpatine knew, his voice a triumphant whisper. "But they could not control you completely. They could not change your lineage so they could not change your destiny. _Nothing_ can do that."

He left this thought hanging in the dusky hush, lit more now by the dancing light of the fire than the waning sun, knowing that the boy's knife-edge silence spoke volumes.

Turning, he stepping away to stand before the hearth, gazing into the brightly destructive flickering of the flames, though every ounce of his awareness was centered on the muted, still form of the Jedi behind him. The chaos of doubts which assaulted the boy now, robbing him of clarity, instilling again that mercurial edge, that wonderfully volatile potential.

Still gazing at the fire, Palpatine shook his head, his voice laced with studied sympathy and empty outrage. "But how callous an act—to withhold from an orphaned child the knowledge of its past, its parents. To watch it struggle to survive, abandoned on some forsaken planet by those who stole it. Another generation to twist with their insurrection and their lies."

He turned slowly to the boy, whose eyes had not risen from the table before him.

"This is what they did to you, Jedi—knowingly, deliberately. They used the isolation they had created as a way to control you. _They_ took everything from you, not I. _They_ took you from your father and they hid you from me—denied you your birthright. You would have been raised a scion—Heir to an Empire. They knew this. You accuse me of holding you here, yet I believe I am freeing you from the enforced, restricting environment which they had bound you to… I could not begin to explain to you the life they so deliberately denied you."

Palpatine set forward, walking to stand beside his Jedi, hand on his shoulder in empty commiseration. Head down, lost in his own thoughts, the boy did not react at all.

"And when they had done this in their own self-serving attempt to control you, when they thought they had you, body and soul, they dragged you center-stage in their worthless Rebellion, aware of the danger you would be in, knowing well that they'd left you with a profound weakness. One so easily remedied, yet so grievous that it brought you here, bound and broken and betrayed."

He stepped closer, gratified that the boy had allowed him to speak for this long without voicing some kind of denial. Long weeks of carefully manipulated events were taking their toll, his words surely kindling burning trails of doubt for the boy to offer so little resistance at Palpatine's accusations now.

"But then perhaps I could see why they would do this. Too close an examination of the past they had created to contain you would place them in a difficult position. Require them to validate…questionable actions."

The slightest tightening of the boy's shoulders was his only visible reaction, though the Emperor sensed that his mind had flickered in momentary protection and knew his thoughts must be of his mother; that after Palpatine's revelations there must be questions he was burning to ask.

But he did not—so Palpatine could wait. The boy would ask when he was ready to hear… what better time to voice accusations than to a willing audience?

"They used you. More callously than you know. Used you and gave you nothing in return, not even the truth. You weren't even worthy of that, in their eyes." His lowered his voice now, laced it with pity and disgust. "How can you defend them, knowing this? Why do you absolve them?"

Skywalker's chin came up in defiance, but he had nothing to say in their defense, against this sea of accusations.

Palpatine smiled, gratified. "Obi-Wan may be long gone, but I knew him well, and I can tell you without a shadow of doubt that he cared nothing for you. He blindly fed his cause and sacrificed anything to it without hesitation. Yet he cowered in the desert rather than face me himself. _That_ is the truth of the man whose memory you so honor.

"The Jedi Council to which he belonged hid their true intent behind high morals and lofty ideals which perhaps they once represented, generations past. But they had become far removed from this. The Council which Master Yoda so skillfully commanded craved ever greater influence. They controlled everything—politics, trade, planetary protection—manipulated events on a galactic scale."

"And you don't?" Luke's voice was quiet and even, but still held a challenge.

Palpatine smiled; it was a small rebuke and a long time coming, lacking the venom he had expected, though as quietly resolute as ever.

"I command my Empire," he said without contrition. "I do what is necessary and hide nothing. I have told you, I do not lie. I do not cloak my goals. The Jedi Council sought nothing more spiritual than power. The Republic was crumbling. They fought me for control…and they lost. In you, Master Yoda saw a way to regain his forfeited status. It was a gamble, but it was one which he readily took because he had nothing to lose. He did not himself challenge my power—he has fought me before…he knew he could not win. No; instead he found another, an outsider, a dispensable commodity in his eyes. He was quite content to hide in the shadows and send you to the slaughter, another innocent condemned for his cause. Send you to do what he knew he could not. Sacrifice you and those about you without the slightest—"

"I think we have finished speaking," Luke said simply, his head turning away, words quiet but firm.

 _"Don't EVER interrupt me!"_ Palpatine shouted his rebuke, hand banging down on the boy's shoulder, a shock of Dark power jolting through his frame.

 

 

Luke's heart pounded against his ribs at the fierce reproach, body tensing, hands tightening into fists at the provocation. But he wouldn't give.

"I think we have finished speaking now." He heard the clipped tone of his own voice as eh repeated his words, heard the frustration and the hostility, but in that moment was past caring. He was sick and tired of being led around. Of honoring a deal which he shouldn't have had to make in the first place, of fighting when nobody gave a damn anymore, of holding back when he knew what he was capable of.

"No, we are not finished talking, Jedi—we have only just begun."

"Then I've finished listening." Voice cut through with barely controlled anger, Luke stood, walking away to return to his quarters.

The huge double-doors to the drawing room swung shut in his face, resonating as the multiple bolts slammed home. "Sit down."

"Open the doors," Luke ordered, his voice cold fury now.  
 _  
"Sit down,"_ Palpatine hissed, his tone unmistakable.

Still Luke would not turn from the doors. He heard the heavy rustle of cloth as the Emperor turned behind him, and in that moment the Force rushed unbidden to his mind, giving a perfect image of the table behind him, every knife on it practically vibrating with the energy about them.

Answering _his_ call—not Palpatine's— _he_ had thought that. And in that moment, he knew how easy it would be.

The reverberating bang of Palpatine's fists on the table made him flinch just slightly, and his jaw tightened further in anger at himself for doing so.

_"SIT!"_

Still Luke stared forward in silence.

"The doors will not open simply because you stare at them," Palpatine spit out.

The derisive tone in the Emperor's voice lit a fire in Luke's stomach, searing away all other considerations. Narrowing his eyes, he looked to the huge, heavy doors—

And called the Force…

An inrush of energy, like a change in pressure, like surfacing from deep water and drawing that first breath. Like the oxygen he breathed; natural, life-giving, potent...

The sheet of intense energy immersed Luke, an unfamiliar twist of raw power tangled through, so that nothing could be hidden, even the smallest increments visible to this flawless perception. It coalesced and defined, diffuse potential converging, frustration and blind fury channeling it as never before.

He pulled this huge well of power in and willed it into crystal-sharp focus, channeled it with absolute precision. Gave it direction, defined his intent and permitted it control in the same instant. Allowed it everything it needed.  
Gave himself over to it completely…

It blazed through him, his muscles twitching as he strived to confine and control this profound inrush of blazing power—and he saw the doors. Truly _saw_ them for the first time, every fine grain of wood which faced them, every striation in the dense slabs of interlinked polymer alloys hidden beneath, rows of heavy bolts embedded into organic steel keeps, bound and inlaid with perennium cables from floor to ceiling, all set into a cage of massive girders behind innocuous plaster walls. Every conceivable strength carefully compounded to hold against him.

 

And it was nothing—nothing at all.

 

He hurled the Force at them, a wall of dense, unstoppable energy, and the heavy wood paneling which covered the true nature of the doors simply collapsed beneath it. The fine carving compressed inwards, its mass reduced to nothing as he kept on pushing, disintegrating to dust against the might of this single, sustained blow.

And still he pushed forward—

The metal hidden within began to creak; groan beneath the power thrown against it, compression heating it to red hot so that the remnants of wood began to smolder and blacken.

Luke tilted his head, leaning in to the task, indiscriminate fury giving him purpose, all his frustration thrown forward against that which stood in his way.

With a shock of movement the doors wrenched back several inches, masonry from the walls about them exploding outwards in fine powder as the heavy inset bolts began to fail, the keeps pushed back through plasteel block, dragging heavy girders and strung cables with them.

Another jolting inch in a screech of tortured metal, the doors completely black now as the wood covering had scorched to cinders. Flaws began to rip through the internal structure as the metal failed under massive, sustained pressure…

Only now did Luke throw both hands up, palms out to the doors.

The surrounding wall exploded back under the invisible blow, the massive doors torn away as if they were matchwood, to bounce against the walls in the room beyond, dragging huge scars into the plaster to reveal the cabled plasteel structure beneath, before finally coming to rest in a mangled crush against the far wall, leaving deep gouges hewn into the polished marble floor as they tumbled in a flurry of dust and debris…

 

 

Moments passed unchecked, the silence ringing in Palpatine's ears after the cacophony of noise, both mental and physical.

Skywalker remained perfectly still as the dust rolled back and billowed about him to settle in a fine white haze on the black marble floors. He did not turn as he spoke, staring straight ahead at the huge, gaping hole ripped into the feet-thick walls where the heavy blast doors had stood, thick cable and dense alloys sheared off about it.

"Apparently they will," he said at last.

 

He walked calmly into the drawing room beyond, passing the destruction he had metered out without a single glance and continuing on into the adjoining chamber, its own huge doors closing in restrained silence behind him.

Alone now, Palpatine's face turned slowly to a broad, insidious smile as he looked appreciatively at the incredible destruction his Jedi had wrought.

He knew the power it had taken to do that—the power Skywalker had called so easily and so naturally to him.

Slowly, in the reverberating silence, he began to laugh.

 

 

Luke slumped to his knees in the still hush of the empty room, that dark instant of flawless clarity gone. A shiver wracked his frame at the cold realization of a brief affinity. In the shadowed hush of the huge, soulless chamber, he looked to the freedom beyond the thick panes of the tall windows, terrified in that moment that it was lost to him.

Perhaps it could never have been otherwise.

Perhaps it was all he deserved.

Was this destiny?

Staring in mute silence at the moon beyond the Palace towers, feeling the howling call of the Darkness as never before, he remembered again his childhood dream: the wolf that clung to the shadows, at one with the night, slipping past any defense, always hunting, breath misting a snarl in the cold twilight.

Hunting him, he had thought.

But now…now, when he slept, there was only himself in those raven shadows, and the Darkness clung to him like a cloak, dragging him down.

Leaving him to prowl the barren night alone.

 

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

 

 

** CHAPTER FOURTEEN **

 

 

 

Twelve weeks—twelve weeks of incarceration in the same few rooms. Twelve weeks of grinding pressure. Twelve weeks of uncertainty and doubt and incessant provocation.

And it wouldn't end here, not really. Not for him.

But it sure as hell was about to change. For better or worse.

Luke had spent much of the afternoon in the empty bedroom, knelt in meditation—or as near as he could come to it in this dark, desolate place. Putting up shields, raising imperceptible barriers to hide his intent.

He'd realized he could do this days after arriving here, sensing the impression of it in Mara's mind when she spoke to him and using it as a template to guide his own attempts, consistently investing time and effort in improving the same skill week on week, so that he was pretty confident now that he could not only shield thoughts from Palpatine, but hide the shields also, in such a way that the Sith wasn't aware that something was being hidden.

The trick, Luke had found, was to always leave a few perceptible barriers in place—something to focus attention on—so that although he now hid far more than he allowed to be seen, he was confident that although Palpatine knew he was hiding things beyond the obvious, the Sith had no idea what or how much.  
He was staking a great deal on that theory tonight.

Luke opened his eyes to gaze out into the darkening night, studying the heavy, monofilament-reinforced clear plasteel plate of the windows.

Could he break them?

Yes—he knew he could. He _knew_.

The window was nothing—he had broken down the doors five days ago, which were far heavier…and therein lie the dilemma.

He had destroyed the doors because he had touched Darkness. Allowed it sway in his frustration and his anger. But he was aware of his abilities expanding even without that spur, as if it had somehow opened a portal—or perhaps he simply had faith in his own abilities now, as Master Yoda had always sought to instill.

Or maybe he remained in contact with the Darkness… that thought brought a slight frown to his face; fast, easy power—that was what Master Yoda had said. But would it be so terrible to use it as a method of escape—to gain Han's freedom? What could possibly be Dark in that intent? He glanced again at the windows, his momentary doubt rejected in the face of greater need.

In his meditative state, he easily picked up on Palpatine's presence as he moved through the Palace in the early evening, heading for Luke's quarters, sense focused, brimming with decisive intent, eager and energized and endlessly self-confident.

When he entered the hall two rooms away, Luke took one final deep, calming breath.

Long night ahead.

 

 

 

 

Palpatine mouthed and espoused as only he could. Vindictive, manipulative accusations whose words Luke didn't even hear, gazing blankly at the old man, listening to his own blood whistling in his ears.

Time passed and he tried to listen, tried to react, tried to hide how wired and tense he was.

He reached out to take the large, engraved glass goblet from the table, momentarily chiding himself for not having taken the time to do this more often so that now it seemed a common act, casually transferring it to his left hand before bringing it to his dry mouth.

He took a long drink, wishing it were something stronger, aware of his heart pounding as he replaced the goblet to the table but not releasing it. Waiting—turning his attention back to Palpatine— _concentrate!…_

"…tell me that you have been struck from the Rebellion's records—they are disowning you, my friend."

"They wouldn't abandon me so hastily," Luke said, shaking his head.

"You are already gone, Jedi." Palpatine smiled, amused.

"Then who destroyed the Death Star?"

"The pilot who destroyed the Death Star died in the battle of Hoth, they say. That is the official line. He died a hero—sacrificed his life for their cause. _You_ , my friend, are an Imperial agent. A spy who infiltrated their highest ranks and betrayed their every trust. I'm told they fell over themselves to desert you. To deny any association or connection with the man they couldn't wait to condemn. That is the extent of their loyalty—it always was."

Luke tensed against this final barb, eyes narrowed, jaw tight.

"You have no—" The glass shattered into fragments in his hand, causing him to jump up and back as his chair toppled behind him.

He halted, cradling his injured left hand as blood began to flow from deep wounds, mingling with the red wine which stained the perfect white cloth of the table. Teeth clenched, he gingerly pulled at a large fragment which had lodged into the flesh of his palm, and dropped the scarlet-smeared shard to the table, reaching back to work a second razor-sharp splinter free.

The Emperor watched all of this in rapt silence, as if it were a diversion acted out for his personal entertainment.

Luke clenched his hand shut against the flow of blood, jumped just slightly, then carefully picked at another deep gash to pull free a vicious glass sliver. Again he squeezed his hand shut, dark, viscous blood oozing between his fingers and onto the already-stained cloth; more than he'd expected.

He gazed at his clenched fist for long seconds before finally lifting his head to Palpatine, eyes burning an accusation.

The Emperor only smiled, eyebrows raised in polite expectation. "Perhaps you'd like another glass?"

Luke glared long seconds before biting out, "Why, do you have something else you'd like to say?"

The Emperor paused considering, as if this had been a serious request. "No—no, I think we have finished tonight, my friend."

He rose, the heavy doors beginning their slow cycle of unlocking. Luke subconsciously counted out the seconds, as he had done a hundred times before. Mara entered, followed by six Royal Guards, who opened their tight, two-by-two formation to allow the Emperor to step between them.

Glancing nonchalantly back, Palpatine murmured to Jade, "See to his hand," before walking from the room without looking back. The doors slammed shut behind him, their staged lock engaging.

Mara stepped forward, hand outstretched, but Luke turned away. "It's fine," he lied, stalking back through the dark drawing room alone.

_Check it…_

"Let me check," she said easily, following him.

"I said it's fine," he dismissed again, dropping it casually open at his side to leave a trail of ruby drops scattered across the stone floor on his path through the bedroom and down the long marble corridor of the 'fresher suite.

 

Shaking her head just slightly at Skywalker's typical willful stubbornness, Mara followed. By the time she reached the washroom the sink was already spattered with blood, more of the same still trickling from his hand.

He let out a small sigh, as if uncertain what to do, and Mara stepped forward to take his hand and open it without resistance, examining the deep cuts with a soldier's eye.

He remained silent for long seconds before offering in a quiet voice, "I think there's still some glass in, but I can't find it."

She lifted his hand closer, examining the oozing gashes. "I can't see anything," she said, easing the wounds open one by one to look, then pinching them closed. "These need stitching though. I'll send for Hallin."

"Stupid." He looked away, annoyed. "Stupid thing to do."

For some reason, Mara kept hold of his injured hand. "I think you both have a way of getting round each other's defenses," she said without looking up.

"Yeah, I don't see him calling out the medic."

"You've scored a few blows, believe me," Mara admitted, wondering why she was telling him this. "He thought he'd have you well trained, by now."

He was silent for long seconds at this, in which time Mara studiously studied his hand. When she finally looked up, he was frowning at her, clearly wondering the same thing.

She held his gaze for long seconds…

When he took a breath to speak, Mara cut in quickly. "I'll…get that medic."

She released his hand to walk quickly past him in the doorway, aware that she'd brushed against him even though he'd stepped back, the room plenty large enough for her to have avoided it.

"Thanks," he muttered quietly, then, "Mara—"

She glanced round, surprised; it was rare that he called her by name. "What?"

"Sorry," he said, a strangely heartfelt apology.

"For what?"

He shrugged. "Just…sorry."

Mara stared for a few moments longer, wondering at this, but he glanced down and took his bleeding hand in his other, so she turned to walk away, aware of the surveillance lenses, wishing she could slap herself on the forehead at her own rash actions.

 

 

 

Skywalker remained uncharacteristically quiet as Nathan cleaned and sutured the wounds in his hand, sitting on the arm of a chair in the locked drawing room, a light pulled close.

Nathan was getting used to being just dragged out to perform his duties wherever his sole charge happened to be at the time, so that being summoned from his own quarters in the North Tower and brought through the incredible security of the South Tower to tend to Vader's son in what were hardly sterile conditions, with poor light and only what equipment he had brought with him, seemed little more than a mild inconvenience now.

It had become clear that Skywalker occupied a strangely ambiguous position within the Palace—though that was about the only thing that was clear. He seemed, to all intents and purposes, a prisoner here, with locked doors and countless guards. Yet he also seemed to occupy a position in the Emperor's personal entourage and the title of Commander, with apartments and staff and all attendant entitlements.

It was just that all these privileges existed under incredible security, most of which was kept well hidden from the few who were entitled to travel this far into the always-restricted South Tower.

No one within the Palace, outside of those who were involved with him on a daily basis, seemed to have the slightest idea who he was, and Nathan had found himself the subject of many subtle attempts to find out. Why exactly they thought he would know was a mystery, since he was almost as clueless as everyone else, aware now that he had been fed the official party line with regard to Skywalker's past.

Still, it had been made abundantly clear by the higher powers that speaking Luke Skywalker's name outside of the man's presence was absolutely out of the question. He was to be referred to as the Commander; only ever the Commander.

Nathan had heard it whispered many times now that he was one of the Emperor's vaunted undercover agents, as Commander Jade was suspected to be, trained from a young age to travel unnoticed throughout the Empire fulfilling his master's commands in 'delicate situations.' But then he'd also heard that he was an ex-Royal Guard, an infiltration specialist who, like Lieutenant Commander Reece, had now been retired to take up a more conventional position within the Emperor's retinue. Either of which could well be true for all Nathan knew, though neither explained the guards at the door, more jumpy than ever tonight.

For some reason, Skywalker seemed to be limited to the bedroom and drawing room again now; or rather, for what was a very obvious reason—it was hard to miss the huge amount of repair work visible around the drawing room entrance, the massive reinforced cage of the underlying security structure surrounding the security doors carefully reconstructed but not yet matched in and hidden.

That they'd actually tried to take his scalpel from him at the outer doors tonight had seemed a little extreme even here though, as outrageously wary as they always were of their charge. He'd argued strenuously that the short medical laser was hardly a threat, before finally being allowed it by Commander Jade.

It all seemed rather a case of obsessive overkill as far as Nathan was concerned. Although he was clearly here against his will, it wasn't as though Skywalker had ever done anything even vaguely threatening. He seemed always polite and mild-mannered, and was no taller than Nathan himself, though he had the kind of rangy, solid musculature one probably got from a life as a professional soldier, rather than Nathan 's more sedate days spent studying papers on specialist surgery and medical anatomy.

But he'd always remained so very equitable and composed. Never once had Nathan felt threatened in his company the way he did in his father's presence, even when they had differences of agreement in their discussions—which they almost invariably did. For a man who lived in the Imperial Palace, Skywalker seemed to have decidedly radical views.

He'd often been tempted to just ask directly of Skywalker what exactly was going on…but since that one slip in which Skywalker had clarified just a few brief points, his answers posing more questions than they addressed, it had been made very clear to Nathan that his newly-acquired position depended greatly on his co-operation, and while a little knowledge could be a dangerous thing, Nathan had the distinct impression that in this case, a lot of it could well be deadly.

Skywalker broke into Nathan's train of thought as he worked now, his question as searching as every other discussion they'd had. But always congenial, even in disagreement.

"Do you ever ask yourself what you're doing, Hallin?"

"What, in suturing your hand?" Nathan asked lightly. "No, I'm pretty sure I know how to do it. They gave me certificates and everything."

Skywalker's voice was quietly good-natured. "You know what I mean—whether this is right."

"No, I don't ask myself any such thing," Nathan said pointedly. "Which is why I'm here and you're there."

"Then you're a fool," Skywalker said easily with a brief, tight smile. "If I get out of here I'm free—you'll stay in your prison forever."

"How wonderfully self-righteous you are," Nathan countered easily, no malice in his voice. "But then I suppose that's all you have left."

"I have my integrity," Skywalker said without looking up as the medic sutured the deep slices in his hand.

"Integrity doesn't open locked doors," Nathan dismissed amiably. Though he disagreed with his views, he rather liked Luke in truth, enjoying their little debates.

"Integrity can't be chained," Skywalker said affably.

"But you, apparently, can."

Skywalker smiled at this, typically unoffended. "Touché."

He looked at his hand as Nathan sprayed a liquid protector over the wounds, the worst three of which had required sutures, the rest closed with sterile strip.

"Thank you," Luke said absently, glancing down.

"Try to keep your hand open tonight so the scars don't split open in the morning. And keep it dry," Nathan said, packing up. "It's a pity it wasn't your prosthetic hand, really—it would have been a far simpler job."

"But it would probably have been left 'till morning," his charge replied, as if this were some validation.

"Quite." Nathan frowned, uncertain what to make of that, instead studying the reader in his hand, a sample of his patient's blood in the small receptor. "Your adrenalin's very high." He frowned again, taking a scan. "And your heart rate's way up. How do you feel?"

"Fine. Thank you, Hallin." Skywalker stood in polite dismissal, so Nathan backed away, packing instruments into his pockets and case.

"If you need something to sleep…"

"No. Thank you."

Nathan shrugged and walked to the door, waiting long seconds for it to slowly cycle open.

Two Red Guard stepped in and to either side as it did so, to let him through.

"Ah!"

Hearing his shout, Nathan turned back to see his patient holding his injured hand awkwardly.

"It's split…the sutures..." Skywalker stepped forward to Nathan, hand out before him, so he took a half-step back into the room towards him as Skywalker reached the door, hand out...and Nathan frowned; all the sutures were intact…

It happened in a blur, Nathan barely registering the actions before they were done.

Skywalker twisted his injured hand to the side and the long pike in the grip of the nearest guard wrenched free to leap the short distance to his own—

Even as it happened he was still stepping forward, snatching the pike from midair and twisting it quickly round to land a solid blow to the guard's chest, the activated pike releasing a blinding charge of power which dropped the guard without a sound—

Without pausing to make sure he fell, Skywalker immediately back-swung the pike into the second guard, using the opposite end for speed, so that both were on the floor before Nathan even realized what was happening—

The two guards who stood inside the dining room started forward, reaching for concealed blasters as Skywalker flung the pike from his left hand to his right and stretched his left hand out before him, palm out, fingers open—

And somehow the guards were launched back, feet leaving the ground, arms flailing as they hit the far wall with a brutal smack which could have been bone or armor or both—

"S-Stop!" Completely ignored by Skywalker, Nathan backed up a step, fumbling at the medical scalpel in his pocket, finally pulling it free to turn on the tiny blade and brandish it before him.

Skywalker barely glanced at him. "Really?" he asked, pike still in hand.

Now, suddenly, with this mercurial change—in his stance and his intent and his casually threatening manner—he seemed very much like his father.

Nathan glanced at the pike and at the four guards, brought down without the slightest hesitation, then looked into the man's eyes…

He backed up, dropping the scalpel as Skywalker grabbed at the scruff of the nearest guard, hauling him with him as he walked quickly to the huge windows in the dining room, counting down out loud—

The doors to the dining hall were cycling open now, more guards undoubtedly waiting to get in—

"Fifteen... fourteen..."

Nathan turned to Skywalker as he stopped, unruffled, before the windows; paused as if gathering his thoughts…then he threw his open hand out before him—

Something... _something_ wrenched at the air about Nathan with enough power to make his eardrums pop, and in that same instant the heavy reinforced windows exploded outwards in a shower of fine, fragmented pieces, the screeching wrench of shearing cables and stressed steel competing against the deafening alarm which burst forth that same instant—

Nathan could see Skywalker's lips moving, counting down as he stepped through the still-falling debris onto the darkness of the balcony beyond, the unconscious guard in tow—

The medic stood frozen for several long seconds before the outer door finally cycled open, realizing as it did so that this was what Luke had been counting down.

Guards flooded into the room in a flurry of red robes, force pikes activated. Nathan gestured pointlessly to the huge, gaping hole in the wall, where massive chunks of reinforced lintel still swung wildly, held in place by a few intact cables still threaded through the transparisteel slab—

He stepped back further as still more guards poured through the narrow doors, the room a sea of scarlet now. Momentarily, he spotted the dark fitted jumpsuit and flash of red hair which was Commander Jade as she pushed forward, then she was lost again in the massed troops.

Bizarrely, in that moment, surrounded by this wild chaos of noise and people, his heart beating staccato against his chest, the only thing which was going through Nathan 's shocked mind in the face of this incredible revelation of Skywalker's true abilities was, ' _That's_ why they wanted to take my scalpel!'

 

 

 

Mara stood on the balcony gazing out over the carved stone balustrade, trying to spot Skywalker in the dense black of night, the huge beams of light which illuminated the Tower walls to make them visible for miles around, now blinding her completely.

She turned quickly, blinking away the bright spots, having the forethought to check above as well as below and to the side of her, but he was nowhere to be seen. She knew a Jedi could jump extreme distances without injury, but the balcony was twenty-four stories above the monolithic Main Palace…could he jump that far?

She turned back, pushing through the throngs of Red Guards, struggling against the crowd to get back into the main corridor beyond the Dining Hall and head at full tilt for the Ops room, cursing all the way.

 

 

"Status," Mara ordered as she arrived, struggling for breath.

The four ops officers shook their heads, expressions grave—everyone knew their heads were on the block tonight. "Nothing yet. All security images clean; no sightings. He's going to have to get back into the main Crossway in the Tower base if he wants to get down any further into the Palace though. The Towers are sealed already. Enclision grids are active, blast shields are in place. We're locked down—there's no way he can get through to the Main Palace."

Mara considered… "Open the first few blast doors on the East Tower—the ones you can see from the Crossways. Let's see if he'll bite. Get extra troops down there, out of sight. And start repositioning stormtroopers around the stairwell in the Main Palace."

The Ops Duty Officer nodded, speaking quickly into his comlink as Mara forced herself calm, eyes skipping from display to display…nothing.

She shook her head, frustrated. "He'll not try to get back in yet. He'll stay outside as long as he can to avoid being spotted; try to climb down to the Palace roof somehow. But it'll slow him down and he knows it—and whatever he does, he'll eventually have to get back in—he can't bypass the Main Palace entry, he has to go through it."

But he didn't know that. He may well try to stay outside and look for some way down the smooth, shielded bulk of the Main Palace walls—in his situation, she would have… Which meant he'd probably get as close to the main Crossway at the Tower bases as possible outside, then try to get back in—probably not back into the South Tower. Which would put him on the Main Palace roof in the next few minutes... and within striking distance of the landing pads there, she realized. "Lock down everything on the roof pad. How many transports are there?"

The duty officer frowned. "Just two. Both shuttles."

"Do you know the Deck Officer to look at?"

The Ops D.O. nodded.

"Tell him he's to go out to them right now with a blaster and shoot out the flight consoles—tell him it's my order. I want them unflyable inside one minute."

The man nodded, understanding—two shuttles were a small price to pay.

"Then get every spare body onto the roof gardens. Get every light on—I want it lit up like a landing strip. Call Units Four, Five and Nine down from his quarters and get them out there. How many—"

_-Mara-_

She flinched, knowing this was coming...

_-We'll find him, master-_

She knew that the Emperor was rising, heading downwards toward her position. There would be hell to pay for this. He'd known, of course, that Skywalker was going to do this eventually; make some bid for freedom. But he'd predicted that it wouldn't be yet—had been so sure that it would be late tomorrow, when the pact which had held Skywalker this long expired—and Mara had set all her plans around this, additional reinforcements to be placed everywhere at the change of shift at dawn tomorrow, sure that her master couldn't be wrong.

Sure that Skywalker would hold to his word on the agreement.

But Skywalker was changing; becoming more volatile, less predictable. She knew that, had watched it happen—why hadn't she allowed for it?

_Stupid, stupid, stupid…_

A stray memory clicked—of Skywalker cursing himself the same way in the 'fresher as she'd studied his injured hand. Of him apologizing, for what she hadn't known…

This was all planned! His hand, the medic—everything! "Pull up the footage of the drawing room just before it happened!"

She watched it closely, squinting… "Again."

This wasn't a chance opportunity he'd seized. He'd walked forward too casually, eyes on his hand, not looking up.

She watched him move with that incredible burst of speed as he snatched the force pike, dropping both the guards almost simultaneously, then swapping the pike to his artificial hand to use the Force to throw the second pair of guards back…then he grabbed one by the scruff and dragged him casually forward to the tall, reinforced windows…

The windows! That had been a trial! Weeks ago, he'd thrown the Force at them, and she'd believed, as everybody had, that they'd held against him…but he'd not broken them on purpose! He'd wanted to see if they _could_ be broken, but hadn't wanted to have them further reinforced, so he'd just tested them!

It was all just a test…a test for today. She shook her head, lips pursed in frustration. And then the rest fell into place…everything. He'd wanted to know the response too; what would happen when he _did_ break them—timings, numbers. That was all part of his dry run.

"You son of a… what are you doing…?" She gazed at the footage as that sea of Red Guards flooded into the room… _Come on, Luke—this was organized…what were you planning…_

"Go back." She frowned, reaching forward to operate the controls herself. The image jumped back several seconds to the point when he glanced to the medic—what did he say? She frowned, leaning closer... "What's he saying now?"

Everyone in Ops squinted at the image. "He's counting," one of the men said slowly. "See? He's counting down…"

"He's counting the response time..." Mara said, then, in a flush of realization, "The door time! The length of time it takes for the lock on the door to cycle open."

"But he's almost out…" the Ops officer said, confused.

"Yes," The Emperor's guttural voice was hard and biting, and everyone spun about and bowed low, Mara included.

When she lifted her head, it was she whom Palpatine was glaring at.

"Why haven't you caught him yet?" To the point as ever.

"We're having some trouble locating his exact…"

"Replay the images," Palpatine spoke over her, disinterested in excuses.

The Ops officer rushed to comply, playing the image from the moment the prisoner walked up to the drawing room door, hand out.

"Where are the guards stationed now?" Palpatine asked quietly, squinting at the image.

Mara checked status screens. "Mostly in the lower levels. We've got as many units as possible out on the rooftop gardens, searching it by quarters. He's still outside, because we haven't had an entry alarm sound yet. I've had some of the tranquillizer sent down, and there are three units who carry it routinely who've…"

"Bring them in," Palpatine interrupted. "He's in the Towers."

Mara frowned. "Master?"

"He's in the Towers, dressed as a Royal Guard. Probably with those you so considerately sent running down to the Crossways, since that's where he needed to get to. Replay the image."

Mara turned back to the display, head fizzing with adrenaline as she took in the scene.

"There—slow the image," Palpatine said coolly.

It was at the point where the first flurry of guards came rushing in… Mara studied the display as the image edged forward incrementally.

"Stop," the Emperor ordered curtly, stepping forward to point at the frame, his long white fingers pale against the sea of scarlet in the image. "He's there."

In the midst of the chaos of red-garbed Royal Guard who streamed into the room, spreading out and onto the balcony, one guard was walking calmly the opposite way, back through the entrance door, pike in hand…

"The guard he dragged out onto the balcony," Mara said flatly. "He was counting down the time he had to dress."

The Emperor turned hard, yellow eyes on Mara. "Are the guards still out in the gardens?" he asked pointedly.

Mara rushed to comply, recalling troops and reassigning the blue-clad Palace Guard and grey-uniformed officers—every Royal Guard now had to have his identity checked.

 

 

Luke smoothed down the olive drab of the officer's uniform he wore, running his fingers quickly through the short, military crop he'd had just days before, eyes flicking coldly from the nervous Intel officer he'd just taken the uniform from, to the second officer now slumped in the corner; there was always someone who chanced their luck.

He turned back to the first man. "Okay, here's the deal. You do exactly as I tell you and you'll have a very interesting story to tell over dinner tomorrow night. Cross me, interfere, get in my way or disobey and I will put you in the morgue and go find someone who _will_ do as I say. Are we very clear on that?" His voice was quiet and flat, but deadly serious.

The man nodded dumbly.

Confronted with that blast of fear which blared out through the Force, Luke tried to feel any shred of guilt at the man's terror, but in that moment it was far beyond him. All he saw was his plan—all he felt was cold, single-minded determination.

"Put those on." He kicked his own trousers, carefully chosen tonight, across to the man—also very carefully chosen.

A little taller than Luke with short dark hair, wearing Luke's dark trousers and military boots with the white shirt from his own uniform, he could easily be Han from a distance.

Luke had been eager to get rid of the Royal Guard's uniform as quickly as possible—it had been a method of getting him out of the room, nothing more. To keep wearing it when they would have him in security footage dragging the damn guard outside would have been suicide, but it had served its purpose.

He'd headed up four stories—not so far that a member of the Red Guard would have seemed out of place—then began frantically searching for his next change of clothes, on just the right officer. He needed someone with a reasonably prominent rank and therefore high security clearance—not too old, fast enough not to slow Luke down, though he didn't intend going that far…and the right look.

And he figured he had about three minutes to find him.

Then along came this guy, making Luke's night…though probably not his own, Luke reflected dryly, bundling the red overcloak into the hard cowl-helmet, the only pieces of the Red Guard's uniform he'd had time to drag on.

Glancing about, he turned his gaze up, at the lowered roof. He almost— _almost_ —used the Force to lift the discarded clothes into the ceiling void. But he caught himself at the last minute—he could do a reasonable job of confusing Palpatine's concept of his exact position, but not if he used the Force directly.

Instead, he climbed quickly up onto the desk, pushing a tile back and stowing the disguise before jumping back down, his eyes on the officer.

"What's your name?"

"Arco."

"Do you have a first name?"

The man eyed him warily. "Andorius."

Luke lifted his eyebrows at that. "Okay…we'll stick with Arco. And when I ask you a question, you're gonna answer me straight away, and you're gonna tell the truth, 'cos I'm really not a man you should consider lying to—not tonight."

He hefted the man's stolen blaster up to rest it against his shoulder.

"Let's have our first try, huh? I need the nearest ops room up from here that'll give me access to the Detention Center below the Main Palace." He knew that Mara Jade used one just a few levels down, but going down was not an option.

The man tensed up resolutely. "There are none above here. The nearest one is—"

Luke stepped forward, grabbing the man's arm and wrenching him forward to slam his hand down flat onto the desk before him. Swinging the blaster in, he pushed the muzzle against the back of the Imperial's hand.

"I assume you like the matching pair? Because let me tell you, the surgery to replace it will put my blasting a hole through it to shame…"

The man pursed his lips and Luke tightened his finger on the trigger. He didn't want to shoot—more because the noise may well give him away than for any other reason—but he would, if he needed to. And it wouldn't be the man's hand which took the shot…

Somewhere in the back of his mind an alarm sounded, but he dismissed it almost instantly, focused on his goal. "Last chance—then I get rid of you and wake up the guy in the corner."

Even passively through the Force, this close he could sense the officer waiver, resistance crumbling…

"Fine." Keeping hold of the man's arm, he lifted the blaster without hesitation to his forehead...

"Wait! Okay, okay. Two stories—it's two stories up."

Luke pulled the blaster back, releasing his hold. "You're a smart man, Arco. Lead on."

He was surprised how easy it had been. How easy it would have been…

 

 

Mara sat in the ops room as streams of information came from each of the units who searched the lower levels of the Tower, taking her time now to position and back up each unit carefully, moving all Red Guards back from the last two levels above the Crossway and building the numbers of Palace Guards on every level.

In the Main Palace, one story and about thirty feet of blast-proof organic steel composite down from the Crossway, and completely unreachable from it when the shields were down, she was also positioning stormtrooper units as back-up. She knew that it was impossible to pass between the two without ending up in the enclision grids at the base of the Towers, but that was no reason not to be thorough.

Plus she didn't really want the Emperor's prize Jedi cut to pieces by the military-grade lasers in the enclision grid. Both for herself and her master—professional pride, Mara assured herself as she closed her eyes, listening to the reports… No sign of him yet.

"Where are you?" she whispered at last. "How are you getting down—how are you getting past us?"

 

 

Luke kept on heading up, keeping a loose hold of the Imperial, watchful for security lenses and trying to keep both their backs to them, subtly keeping his own head down. Wondering how much serious firepower was being amassed on the lower levels of the Towers to stop him.

Wondering when they'd start to look up.

Hoping that by now, Mara would be starting to move stormtroopers and Palace Guards up to the upper levels of the Main Palace. Gambling that they wouldn't risk the show of weakness inherent in closing down the Main Palace completely, believing Luke was still in the Towers…

"Here," the officer said quietly, pausing by a door marked 'Ops 90'.

Luke stared at the man for long seconds, but he held Luke's eye.

"How many people will be in there?" he asked, not liking standing out in a corridor, but not wishing to go in half-cocked.

"Two normally, at this time of night. But there's been a call-to-quarters, so it could be more."

Luke gestured with his head. "After you."

Arco sighed, a tremble in his breath, but he pressed the door release and entered. As he stepped through, Luke gave him a good push forward, so that all eyes were on him as he stumbled—then Luke was in the room, his blaster pulled free before anybody even looked to him.

"Up!" he shouted. "Move back to—"

The first man jumped up, chair toppling backward as he drew his blaster—

He was taken down in a single body-shot at this range.

The second man fumbled his own gun up and Luke brought his blaster back for another hasty shot, point-blank, the impact launching the man back. The blaster swung instantly around to Arco, who remained perfectly still, eyes shut...

The falling chair finally clattered to the ground, the sound making Arco jerk back in anticipation.

Luke held the blaster at the man for long seconds as his heartbeat slowed.

"Open your eyes," he dismissed casually as he set forward to the desk, leaving the man standing, shocked rigid.

When he didn't move, Luke reached around and grabbed him, pulling him back to the upright chair and yanking him into it. "Get online. And if you sound one alarm, so help me…"

He didn't finish the threat—he really didn't need to. The proof was slumped against the far wall for Arco to see.

"I'm in the system," Arco said quietly. "What do you want?"

"Detention Center. Level Seven," Luke said, pulling up the toppled chair. "I need access to the security footage and the overrides."

Arco glanced once at him, but didn't bother asking.

 

 

 

Han lay back on his hard bunk for want of anything better to do, gazing up at the ceiling. Had he misunderstood? Tonight was the last night—tonight was one week.

He had no idea of the time, but it was only a few hours after his meal, so it was probably still before midnight—did that mean today was almost through? Or did the early hours of the morning still technically count?

"We have _got_ to work out a better system," he announced to the empty room.

If it did mean… The cell door slid open.

Frowning, Han sat up looking to the door, not sure whether he expected to see two stormtroopers or the kid. Long seconds passed in silence before he finally stood and walked forward, leaning out into the long corridor beyond…

No one was there.

First rule of Sabacc: never turn down a free card…

He stepped warily out into the corridor, seeing that the blast door at the only open end of the corridor was locked down, and hearing muffled voices from beyond.

"Great," he muttered. "That's just…"

Across the narrow corridor, the opposite cell door nearest the sealed blast door opened, making him jump outrageously.

Slowly, warily, he walked forward. Uneasy at the proximity of the guards he could hear just on the other side of the blast door, he crouched down to look inside the apparently empty cell.

Nothing inside… What the hell was going on? Was it just a malfunction?

He stepped back, glancing around...and the door half-closed, then slid open again. Then again.

 

"Come on, Han, get in the damn cell," Luke muttered, willing the cagy smuggler to step forward.

Watching security images from the holo's in the ops room he was holed up in, Luke's attention was split between the three guards on duty on the other side of the blast door, who were now beginning to wonder if it really was the malfunction he'd just assured them it was, and the image of the sealed cell corridor to its other side, where Han paused suspiciously before the open cell door.

"Would you _please_ get in!?" he urged, exasperated.

Finally, Han walked forward, crouching to pass warily under the half-lowered door, which Luke closed immediately after he stepped through.

 

Han twisted quickly round, but wasn't nearly fast enough to get back through the closing door. Taking three steps back, he glared at it. "If this isn't you, kid, then I'm gonna look very, _very_ stupid."

He stood still and expectant for long moments…in which nothing happened… Time passed, and he realized he was glaring so hard, his eyebrows were lifting off the top of his head…

Then, with no fanfare at all, the door slid open.

Stepping up, Han heard the voices of the guards to his left in the corridor, the blast door to his immediate right lifted again, now. Edging out, he saw the guards at the far end of the corridor, checking another open cell door. Without running, he stepped silently out of the cell and slipped under the blast door and into the main entrance beyond, immediately sliding sideways out of the line of vision of the troops.

He'd just stepped clear as the blast door closed again, the troops running forward in unison, way too far away to make it.

Shielded now, Han stepped quickly past the main console to the closed turbolift.

"C'mon!" he urged. There were no call panels here, the turbolifts apparently being sent down only on request.

The console beeped for attention behind him. He ignored it, visions of his last fiasco of a conversation on one of those things in the Death Star coming quickly to mind.

The turbolift doors stayed firmly closed. The comm beeped a demand which was easy to ignore…

"Open the…" Han spun round, realizing what he was meant to do and reaching over the back of the console to activate the comm.

"Finally!" Luke's voice crackled from the tinny speaker, filled with impatience.

"Hey, I'm not a mind reader!" Han defended, smiling broadly as he looked up to the security lenses in a bank on the wall. "Where are you?"

"Heading down. You need to get hold of a comlink and set it to 2372."

"Where from?"

"Hey, I got me out, I got you out, I'm about to try to talk down three very irate detention center guards. All you have to do is get one lousy comlink."

"Fine, fine." Han knew he was grinning maniacally now, adrenaline pumping. "…What frequency?"

He could practically hear the kid sigh. "2372. Don't forget. I can follow you on security images—get moving."

The turbolift doors were already opening as Han headed toward them. Finally! A little action!

 

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

 

 

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN **

 

 

 

Mara was shaking her head, staring at the multiple screens of the ops room as call-ins sounded from various Royal Guard units. Everyone checked out—everyone.

"He's not in the Guard's uniform," she announced, not looking from the images, very sure. "He's taken it off."

"Which means he's back in his own clothes," Palpatine said slowly, considering.

Mara flinched just slightly at the powerful inrush of the Force as he gathered it to him, razor sharp, uncompromisingly accurate…if one knew how to interpret it.

She turned, expectant.

"He's still reasonably close by…nowhere near the Main Palace yet."

Mara turned back to the image of the Tower schematic, still trying to figure out how he was moving down without being detected…

The South Tower was completely shut down, all personnel confined to rooms, no window or door alarms tripped… how was he getting past them?

"He's not outside?" she asked, uncertain.

Palpatine opened cold yellow eyes to her and she knew that she'd made an error in questioning his statement, and turned her gaze down in apology.

He didn't deign to reply.

"He won't leave the Corellian. No matter how far he's come in the last few weeks, that goal will remain—he wouldn't desert his comrade." Palpatine spat the last, derisive.

Mara turned—and her master burst into a wide, predatory smile.

"And there is my answer—carefully stored for just this occasion." Mara stared, aware that her own confused expression was simply highlighting his satisfaction. "Have the Corellian brought up—take him to Skywalker's quarters. A full detachment is to escort him."

She nodded, realizing now what her master intended.

 

 

Palpatine was still perusing the finer points of his plan—how exactly to get the smuggler to scream strongly enough that his reaction would send a wonderfully unignorable ripple through the Force to Skywalker—when Mara's alarm burst through his musings.

"Mara?" he prompted, voice low and threatening.

She turned slowly from the console. "He's not there. There was a supposed…"

_"What?"_

 

 

 

Han worked his way with forced nonchalance through the wide walkways of the MainPalace, heading for Level one-six-one, as instructed.

The jacket he'd taken from his now-unconscious comlink donor had turned out to be about three sizes too small, but he'd stuck with it mainly because he now had black grease smeared all over his shirt from having to shimmy up the droid access hatch at the top of the turbolift shaft.

With his usual luck, the Detention Center turbolifts stopped one level before the public access levels began—evidently, the Empire did have _some_ smart designers after all. They'd even put a charged shield over the droid access shaft—which the kid had assured him he'd already disabled with some borrowed security clearance. Staying in the turbolift whilst the doors opened onto the guarded, two-level intersection between the Detention Center and the Palace wasn't an option since he didn't have a blaster, and anyway, this was apparently supposed to be quiet getaway.

On the few military channels he could get on his stolen comlink, all hell seemed to be breaking loose in the Towers, but here on the admin levels in the Main Palace—the public face of the center of the Empire—all seemed ship-shape and glass-smooth…more or less

Not many people around though—and the high administration-personnel to white-armor ratio was very disconcerting. Or it had been…now it seemed to be settling out. Whatever the kid was doing, it sure was attracting a lot of attention elsewhere—which made Han's progress easier, but he got the feeling he wouldn't like the price.

Still, Luke seemed pretty confident and appeared to have everything under control; in fact Han's only job at this point was to get up to Level one-six-one.

It was all going way too smoothly…

 

 

The Emperor remained still and silent in the back of the room as Mara slowly deciphered the facts.

The Detention Level guards said they were in contact with Ops 90, who had logged their level's blast-shield errors and were sending a team down. It wasn't at all unusual for them to receive contacts or commands from Ops rooms around that level; Commander Jade often requested updates and gave orders to move a certain prisoner around from any of the Ops rooms around those levels, they had defended.

Which was true—though how Skywalker knew this was…another stray memory came sharply to Mara's mind—of Skywalker standing before the windows in the drawing room the day after he had decimated the contents of the bedroom and claiming coolly that he could read her mind, despite her shields. Could he? Or was it just coincidence?

He'd seemed so brittle that day, so uncharacteristically sharp that she had dismissed it as a simple dig, an attempt to get under her skin. She was after all trained to be able to hide her thoughts from Vader—Palpatine had taken great care with that—and she knew she had never let her guard down with Skywalker to that extent.

"Bring up the security image of Ops 90," her master prompted, bringing her thoughts back to the moment.

"That security lens is down, Excellency," the duty officer admitted, his voice small.

Which went towards explaining one important fact, Mara knew; the simple reason that they couldn't work out how Luke was moving down through the Tower without being spotted, was that he hadn't been moving. _Why_ was a different question.

"So he went up, not down," Palpatine finally grated, voice leaden with barely-controlled anger.

Mara reached out to the console and pulled up the images from the corridor outside Ops 90, taking them backwards at high-speed.

The brief flash of two figures made her halt the image, playing it back several times as she studied it, dumbstruck. At first glance, it was an officer and what looked like an aide in civilian clothes—but obviously wasn't Skywalker.

Still, she studied it closely—they were the last two people to walk into that room. It didn't take much to realize that the officer was Skywalker, now that she was looking for him…but the other man…

"Is that _Solo_?" she finally asked, squinting, aware that the Corellian was no longer in his cell.

She paused the image; the man stood with his back to the surveillance lens, Skywalker's hand to the small of his back, but it sure as hell looked like Solo. Which prompted the question…how did Skywalker get him up there?

And what the hell were they doing now?

Palpatine interrupted her thoughts. "Start to bring the Guards up from the lower levels. No less than ten per unit—if he fights his way out, then I want to at least hear it. Don't put them too close until you have enough to contain him—and nobody moves until I get there."

Mara nodded at her master, a thought occurring as he turned to the door, face like thunder. "Master, what about Solo?"

"His life is forfeit either way. It always was—it was just a matter of when. If it's possible to keep him alive so that I can do this myself, then all the better. If not, then do what you have to do in order to control Skywalker. A body-shot to Solo without killing him would slow them both down."

Mara nodded, turning back to the ops board to redeploy guards again. When she'd organized their progress by squads up to Ops 90, she took the time to stand down the security alert from the Main Palace and begin bringing stormtroopers up to the Tower from there. She wanted every available body up in the South Tower and around Skywalker.

This whole event had been a series of fiascos, being led by Skywalker from one carefully placed misdirection to another, and Palpatine didn't even begin to realize the extent of her own unwilling involvement in it yet. Mara wasn't about to let Skywalker get away again.

 

 

 

"Luke?" Han was trying his best to look innocuous and run at the same time, not quite succeeding at either, but near enough on both.

"What?" It was the kid, sounding about as worried as Han felt right now.

"I think something's going on down here. There's a lot more people about all of a sudden. And a lot less armor."

There was a long pause, and Han wondered why it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The kid's voice, when he finally spoke, did nothing to ease Han's nervousness.

"That's okay—it's planned for. You should ha…a clea...run to Lev…six-one now. Move fast."

Han frowned. "You're cutting out. Is your comlink okay?"

"Hol…on. Yeah, I thin…jus…power levels. I managed to get the…one..dying a death. Maybe….stop.. …..ster."

"Yeah, I didn't get any of that last bit."

"How's this? I said mayb…if you stopp…complaining, you might get ther…faster."

"I'm here now—I see the landing bay door. See, some of us can do two things at once, junior," Han crowed, carried along by the adrenaline of finally doing something. "Where are you?"

 

 

Up in the Ops room, Luke released his hold on the cut-out of his comm again.

"I'm on level fifteen in the South Tower, just inside the landing bay you saw up here." Luke was glad this was over the comm—he wasn't sure he could have lied so easily face-to-face. Not even for this. "You should be able to just key open the door of the bay where you are. I bypassed the security earlier on from up here."

Ignoring Arco's curious gaze, Luke checked the already-pulled image from the North Landing Bay on Level one-six-one as Han walked inside, the wide doors sliding shut behind him as he brought his comlink to his mouth.

"Luke? I'm…hey, where's the _Falcon_?"

Luke smiled, unfazed; he'd been expecting this, had planned for it. It just wasn't worth the amount of hassle that he would otherwise get if he didn't somehow seem to get Han's precious _Falcon_ free too.

"I'm looking at it right now—it's up here in the Tower," he lied.

"You kidding me! Stay right there, I'm coming up!"

Luke could practically see his friend's grin, and it was infectious—but he couldn't let it interfere with the plan. Or his resolve. "There is no way in a million years you're getting up into the Tower, Solo. You know the security." As he spoke, Luke feathered the cut-out on his comlink again, so the signal was interrupted. But Han got enough.

"What? No way am I leaving here without her."

"I'll fly her. You need to take one of the shuttles in the bay you're in, now—that's why you're there"

"These! These are for kids and bored data-pushers."

"Exactly. No one's gonna look twice. Now pick one—I'm on a schedule here." Luke watched the small image of Han as he dropped the comlink to his side and rolled his head in frustration.

But even he knew better than to argue in a building packed full of stormtroopers, so he glanced around, starting forward. "How's the _Falcon_?"

"I'm not onboard yet. I'll give you a shout when I am," Luke lied. "Now get one of those executive toys and get out of there. I've unlocked bay three, seven, eight and nine. Take your pick."

Luke continued to feather the comlink as he spoke, aware of Arco's puzzled eyes on him. He glanced down, winking secretively at the man, more for his own sanity than anything else, deeply uncomfortable with the lie, but absolutely believing it necessary.

 

 

Han was just into the fastest-looking of the four painfully average skyhoppers when his comlink sparked to life again.

"Han, I'm on board the _Falcon_. I've just started pre-flight. I think I may need to go to full power pretty quick."

He scrabbled for his comlink. "He, don't mess up my ship! You fly her too hard!"

"Me? That's rich!"

"And don't let her get messed up either— _don't_ let anyone shoot at her."

"Thanks—I'll try to remember that," the voice came back dryly.

"Hey, there has been a precedent set," Han maintained, balancing his comlink on the pilot's seat of the shuttle as he wrenched the under-board panel free.

"Two incident.. is not.. precedent," came the kid's voice, clipped by his weak com signal.

"Three more like. Four if you count the one on Ord Mantell," Han shouted towards the comlink without lifting it, concentrating on pulling out carefully selected wires from below the pilot's console.

"Uh-uh," the kid denied. "They were shooting at you that time—I jus…happen…to be flying."

"How's she looking?" Han asked, stripping insulation from wires with his teeth.

"A lot of systems ar…down... What the…ell wer…you doing on Bespin? Lightspeed.. whole comm syste… navigat...nal shields and quad gun…ar…all out. She's runnin…on low power too. I think there's somethi… wrong with the main thrusters. But she'll fly."

That stopped Han dead. "What!? She was fine when I left her on Bespin. Just the hyperdrive."

"Hey, I didn'…touch her—I wasn't even flying."

"Well, maybe you _should_ have been, and then she…"

"This is so very not th…time."

Han scowled, spitting out bits of insulation and connecting bared components, not at all happy with this—he'd rather be on the _Falcon_. "Luke? Bring her down and land here—pick me up."

"I told you, I'm on the _Falco_ …now," Luke repeated. "I don't have access to th…command codes or to any ops system to deactivate th…heavy shields aroun…the Tower or the Main Palace. I'll try to…et the _Falcon_ down to you if you want, but it ha…limited shields an… dodgy main drive."

Han sighed, frustrated, knowing the kid was right. "Okay, okay. Can you get her out from where you are?"

"Yeah, I'd already unlock…this bay. I have a straigh…line out of here… Clear flight headin…due south."

"Fine—take her straight out, we'll meet up. _Don't_ get her shot up any worse."

 

 

In the ops room Luke sighed, relieved. He'd worried that Han would be more stubborn, but he should have known. They kidded around and bickered when they were nervous, but the smuggler was far smarter than to argue tactics in the middle of a situation like this—just get out and sort the small stuff later. "I opened the bay shields for you before I left ops. Take a shuttle and head due north, I'll catch up."

"I'm already hotwiring one. Sporty little thing—figure I'll sell it to make the repairs to the _Falcon_."

Luke grinned. "Fine. Are you out yet?"

"Hey, even I'm not that fast!"

There was a long pause, in which Luke took a moment to split his attention to the corridors outside, wondering whether the Main Palace's stormtroopers had made it up into the Tower yet. Presumably they'd figured out where he was by now, and hopefully they thought Han was with him, otherwise they wouldn't have started pulling stormtroopers from the Main Palace as Han had said; they'd still be searching for Solo—and probably would have found him eventually, considering their numbers. This way, Han had a clear run and Luke had a warning of when they…

His heart double-skipped, realization leaving him numb for an instant.

There were guards all around him. Easily over a hundred. Above, below, to all sides. Well back, but waiting…

"Might want to hurry it up there, Han," he said breathlessly.

"What's your rush?" Han cracked. "You're already in the _Falcon_ —just take off."

"I already have. I'm turning about to head north. Are you out yet?" Time to get him moving.

Luke watched on the monitor as the small skimmer lift unsteadily in the bay far below, righted itself, then shot forward like a spooked womprat. An instant of scarlet panic struck when it occurred to Luke that if they knew where he was, they may have checked through any commands issued from Ops 90, and reinstated the security shield to Han's bay… but the skimmer took off unharmed—and he breathed a long sigh. He just needed one more minute to wrap this up…

"Luke? I'm scanning, but I can't pick you up. Do you know which flight corridor you're in?" It was Han, all concern.

Luke forced himself to concentrate on this—everything else could wait. He wanted Han safely away. He'd known, of course, that the chances of getting himself out were almost zero; known that if he tried to split his attention between getting free and getting all the way down to Han in the Main Palace to get _him_ free, he would have accomplished neither.

He also knew that tactically, he'd thrown away his only real chance; that Master Yoda would have despaired of him for it, and Han wouldn't have co-operated if he'd known. But this wasn't Han's fight, it was his, and try as he might, Luke couldn't watch him be dragged in. They'd been through too much together for too many years. Han had always been his big brother, always looking out for him… Well, now it was Luke's turn.

 _That_ had always been his goal here; to get Han out.

And anyway, he had a perfectly rational reason for this, he assured himself; he'd wanted that leverage removed. His father was right—friends were a weakness, and Palpatine would exploit any weakness remorselessly.

But something whispered at the edges of his mind… and Luke couldn't help thinking he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life, in swapping his own chance at freedom for Han's.

"Luke? Kid?" It was Han, still jabbering into the comm, his voice a mix of concern and exasperation.

Luke smiled, calm again now at the sound of Han's voice; at his anxiety for Luke, at the absolute belief that Han would have done the same, were the situation reversed. At his knowledge that Han would understand, eventually. He took a short breath and sighed, at ease with his decisions and his fate.

"Sorry, Han, my comlink's nearly out of juice." He continued to feather the comm, more and more now. "Do you have your skimmer's call-sign? Actually, don't say that on the open comm. Listen, do you remember that safe harbor? I can get to that easily. Meet there?"

"It'll take me a coupla' days in this." Han's voice was uneasy now.

"It's still the best way," Luke said firmly, offering a possibility to draw him on. "We might catch up when we get out of the built-up shipping lanes anyway. I'll probably find you well before—or more likely you'll find me."

"I guess…" Han was silent a few seconds. "Is everything okay there?"

"It is now," Luke assured, and in that moment, he genuinely meant it. "You have a comm frequency to make base contact, don't you," he checked, not wishing to speak of the Rebellion by name, sure all frequencies would be routinely monitored.

"Sure. But you'll get there a full day before me anyway."

The lies came easy now, Luke's mind very clear. "The _Falcon's_ comm system is down, remember? I'll hit autopilot as soon as I can, and spend some time on it. Maybe I'll get it working. If I do, I'll comm you first. You should contact them as soon as it's safe to anyway, though. Check Leia and Chewie are okay. Besides, you may well get there ahead of me—she's running at about…" He paused, as if checking status, "well, I've got a reading of fifty-four percent power on 'interat thrust. I'm surprised you can't see me. You are going north?"

"I think I know how to fly north, kid." Han's offense at having his flying ability brought into question belayed any misgivings for the moment. "Listen, there's a cantina just off the main square called the Third Strike. I'll see you there, okay?"

"Okay, Han." Luke smiled, hearing that protective tone come into Han's voice; like a big brother again.

"You need to contact a Sluissi called Karrick and ask him for a 'quiet bay'—exactly that. And whatever he asks as docking fee, offer him half. Feel free to do some of that Jedi mind stuff if you have to. And nothin' up front…tell him you weren't born yesterday—you just look that way."

Luke smiled, but he knew time was running out, much as he wanted to just stay hidden and keep talking like this. It would probably be the last friendly voice he would hear for a long time.

"Don't worry," he said, as much to himself as to Han.

 

 

Sitting at the controls of the poky little skimmer, carefully keeping to the official speed limit and flight line, Han frowned, "I always worry with you,"

He realized he was still scanning the horizon, hoping to see the _Falcon_ —and notbecause he was worried about the ship.

"You may be the only one, Han," the kid replied, and Han wondered at the melancholy note in his voice.

The com crackled for long seconds before the kid spoke again. "…Listen, I think m.. comm's finally dying… if …can you sti…see you…few day…Take care, Han…"

Han scowled at the comm as the signal faded into static, unable to brush off the uneasy feeling which burned in the pit of his stomach.

How had he ended up allowing the kid to talk him into making this journey separately? They should have just landed anywhere and both boarded the _Falcon_ —they could have fixed her, they always did. Now, with the _Falcon's_ comm system down, he had no way of contacting Luke until they both got to the Third Strike cantina

In that same instant, Han saw a YT freighter in the distance and jolted upright at the stick, only to realize it was a much later model than the _Falcon_.

 _Stop panicking, Solo_ , he berated himself roundly, before announcing out loud to the empty cockpit, "What the hell kinda trouble can the kid possibly get up to in one day?"

 

 

Luke stared into nothing for a long time before finally placing the deactivated comlink gently down on the desk. He glanced at the Intel officer, who watched him in silence, understanding now what he'd done.

There were no external views available, so that when Han's ship had left the bay it was gone, leaving Luke to stare at the internal image of the still bay, aware only now of how truly alone he was here.

He wasn't worried that Han would come back for him; he would fly all the way to the Tyren Islands and wait for Luke there, as arranged. He would contact the Rebellion while he waited, as arranged, because he knew they'd have to get off-planet as soon as possible…and then Leia would tell him the truth.

She would tell him who Luke really was, and maybe Han would fly off the handle and rant and rave, but he'd go back to the Rebellion to pick up Chewie, by which time he would have calmed down, so Leia would talk some sense into him…eventually. And he'd stay, Luke hoped. Chewie would be fine with that—the Wookiee often admitted wryly that he was a sucker for a hard-luck story, and the Rebel Alliance was the archetypal lost cause. And anyway, it sounded like Han and Leia had finally decided to call a truce.

Funny—he had everything figured out for everyone else, but no idea what _he_ was supposed to do next. It was amazing how quickly all those hopes and plans had fallen apart in this place…

All he knew was that he was, once again, completely and utterly alone in the universe.

He struggled with the uneasy mix of pride and frustration at having accomplished his goals so effortlessly; relief that he'd gotten Han out and uncertainty at the niggling doubt that he should have tried for more. But this had gone so smoothly only because he'd kept to realistic goals, he knew. Unexpected goals.

It could so easily have been a fiasco—there was no way he would have gotten out of here, he knew that. No way he could have gotten all the way down to Han before they moved him, or had enough guards in place to stop Luke. It just felt strangely empty, to have had all his careful planning work so perfectly…yet he was still here.

He dragged his injured left hand through his cropped hair…and wrenched it back, suddenly realizing how much it hurt as his adrenaline waned.

Realizing how exhausted he was, mentally and physically.

He really hadn't planned past this point—this was the end objective…

What did he do now?

The answer, strangely, was to duck. That message blared out loud and clear through the Force and he obeyed without question, grabbing the scruff of Arco's shirt and dragging him down beneath the console—

The wall exploded back towards him in a violent storm of fine debris, fragments stinging at his face and body despite the protection of the console, dust choking him as it clouded up, the room thrown into darkness as the sprinkler system came on.

His ears sang a single tone, bright sparks exploding before his eyes, reality a distant haze for long seconds… Finally he dragged himself up, grabbing at the swaying Arco and hauling the officer before himself, his blaster to the Imperial's head.

It took long, long seconds for the sprinklers to bring down the haze of fine, grimy dust—longer still for Luke to blink his own gritty vision into clarity.

The ops-room wall was completely gone, leaving it open into the wide corridor beyond, everything covered with dust and debris. A three-deep row of Royal Guards had run into the corridor as I had settled and were still now, weapons trained.

"We both know that you won't shoot him, and we both know that I'll not let you use him as a shield. I'll kill him myself before I'll do that." Palpatine's voice was hard and grating, barely-controlled anger all too evident.

He stepped slowly out into view, raven black against the wall of blood red cloaks of the Royal Guards, the scene eerily quiet to Luke's explosion-shocked ears. But he didn't really need to hear the Emperor's voice to know his words. Or his temper.

"Where is your precious friend?" Palpatine ground out, and Luke recognized that he must have only now realized that Han and Luke weren't together.

He glanced at the control console, a twisted wreck now. Either they'd saved Luke the trouble of destroying the only way they could possibly track Han, or they'd already pulled a dump of exactly what he'd done in here before they set off the explosive charge, which seemed unlikely, since Palpatine had asked where Han was. "What, you don't have him?"

The Sith's eyes narrowed at the taunt. "You should have run."

"I know," Luke said, knowing it absolutely now, but determined not to regret his decision.

_Something's about to happen…_

He glanced about the devastated room, for what, he didn't know… Palpatine took a half-step forward and Luke raised the blaster in his hand, pressing it against Arco's throat.

The Emperor only smiled. "Shoot him if you wish. You may gain some degree of satisfaction from it, if nothing else."

Luke heard the man's breath hitch in his throat at this, felt him tense in fear…

He relaxed his gun again. "I'm no murderer."

"Never leave an enemy at your back."

 _He wants me to kill him!_ Luke let his hold on the man loosen, felt Arco's wire-tight shoulders relax slightly.

He was almost, _almost_ , drawn into the argument. But some tiny sliver of warning still worried at his thoughts…

_Why isn't he coming forward? Why is he keeping me talking?_

He looked again at the Sith, reaching out with the Force to touch that grim, unrelenting Darkness, no longer the jarring shock it had once been, no longer completely closed to him, and sensed…expectation; preparation… Darkness gathered to him, held in anticipation…in _defense_ …

The tingle of warning in the back of Luke's mind turned into a blaring shock of realization and he dropped back to a crouch, pulling Arco down in the same moment as he pushed out with the Force instinctively, sensing Palpatine's own Force-shields raise that same instant…

The wall close behind Luke exploded with a jolt of phenomenal intensity, its fragmenting mass thrown against his hastily prepared Force-shield with incredible power and energy, whiting out his thoughts in shock—

Then blackness…

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

 

 

** CHAPTER SIXTEEN **

 

 

Luke came round slowly, his ears still ringing, his skin smarting from a hundred tiny cuts and grazes.

He was laid on a clean, white floor, wearing clean white clothes, arms and feet bare, a scarlet smudge marking the spot where his bleeding face and arm had touched the ground. He rolled over onto his back, the motion lighting fireworks in his vision.

"You broke the agreement," Palpatine said simply, sense boiling with barely-controlled anger.

Luke glanced to the side, to see the Emperor sat on a solitary chair in the bright, curved-wall cell, no other features in the empty room. He considered trying to sit up, but instead stayed on his back and brought his hand up to shield sensitive eyes from the unyielding light, his head already pounding.

"The pact was over. I no longer owe you anything." His words misted before him in the cold air, chill enough to make him shiver against it.

"The pact will end at dawn today—exactly twelve weeks after your companions were freed."

"The pact came into effect at dusk the night before that, when we first shook hands. When you freed your hostages was irrelevant," Luke said dismissively, though he was well aware of the knife-edge he was walking.

 

 

The Emperor narrowed his eyes, his fury tempered by his pleasure at the boy's justification. Skywalker had not so much broken the rules as bent them to answer his needs…and that was why Palpatine would have him.

Rationalization of the methods necessary to achieve one's goals was the slow fall of many good men, his father included. He would be no different.

Already now he could see this new blade sharpening under the heat of pressure. See that edge forming, that heightening of his Jedi's mercurial temper, the hardening of his perceptions, the blurring of his precious principles.

That fascinating, gradual shift of perspective…

But this moment was about something bigger; this was about the greater control, and who held it. "I am not here to argue specifics with you," Palpatine finally snapped.

 

Luke spoke the line he had waited twelve long weeks to say, knowing there would be a penalty…but then a price would be paid one way or another tonight, anyway. "Then shut up."

The reply was instant. No warnings, no threats, no second chances. The Emperor lurched up—

Bolts of bright white energy surged from his hands like lightning, grounding into Luke to throw him back against the curved wall like a ragdoll, the impact sounding a resounding _c-r-ack!'_ which jolted the air from his lungs—

For a second his vision whited out entirely, then his chest was heaving as he struggled to take in breath, tasting blood in his throat as he rolled over onto his knees, shocked at the suddenness and the violence of the attack, bending double to try to ease his breathing. Pain exploded through his chest with each breath and he knew the 'crack' had been ribs breaking. He'd never even heard of such a corruption of the Force, let alone had any idea of how to counter it

"That was a very, very foolish thing to do," Palpatine said, voice afire. "I gave you every chance—every opportunity to step gracefully into your future role—but you refused them all. Surely you realized that it would come to this? My patience is not infinite."

Luke heaved a breath, mind still reeling at what Palpatine had just done.

"Nor is mine," he gasped without conscious thought, surprised at his own words, at the threat implicit within them.

The second bolt came immediately, slamming him back into the wall, his head hitting hard enough to knock reality into a slow loop as sound muffled and sight grew dim. Then the pain stabbing into his chest shocked him awake again and he crumpled forward, struggling for air in short sharp gasps.

He saw blood speckle the floor as he rasped a breath out, his winded lungs beginning to cramp with the effort, shocked muscles contradicting each other so that his chest froze—

Then another bolt, with no time to brace against it, no time to gather mental defenses.

And another.

Everything was pain; white light which seared his eyes, heat blazing through him so intensely that his muscles cramped and his lungs paralyzed. No time, no awareness, only torment so profound that everything else was scorched away.

 

Palpatine attacked without mercy, without restraint, wild fury at the boy's continued willful resistance driving him to a vindictive rage.

He drew every dark frustration to him and threw them at Skywalker with devastating strength, incensed rage given physical power as sharp arcs of light hurled at the boy, coursing over him to ground. Fury that lashed and slashed at him until he cried out, but the Sith only watched him bleed. Bones pushed with incredible slow, deliberate, Dark power until they popped and splintered. Until his Jedi no longer made any noise at all, just the silent outrush of air as the relentless blows made contact, all strength and spirit beaten out of him…

 

In the long silence that followed, the sound of the boy's labored breathing reverberated around the empty room, the metallic smell of burned air and seared flesh hanging heavy.

" _Never_ think to threaten me," Palpatine hissed with absolute finality. " _Never_."

He remained still for long minutes, watching the boy drift in and out of consciousness before, finally satiated, he moved to crouch beside him, head tilted to one side as he studied with silent, detached fascination.

 

Slowly surfacing from this excruciating agony, the metallic tang of warm blood in his mouth, Luke opened burning eyes to see Palpatine stretching out a hand for him—gently, almost; compassionately.

If he could have, Luke would have twisted away. As it was, he could barely stay conscious as the Sith took his head and turned it easily toward him, his voice calm and cold and deadly.

"I offered you _everything_ and you turned it down. But I see now that the mistake was mine, in not clarifying the alternative. In not illustrating to you the consequences of defiance. I have been too lenient; allowed too much free thought, too much free will. I shall endeavor to correct that. You have spent your favor now, child. You have spent your choices. From now on, every decision you make will carry a consequence. Every word you utter. Choose them with care, as I will choose my redress."

 

 

Palpatine rose in a rustle of raven robes and walked to the door, arranging a veneer of self-restraint and civilized calm about himself as it cycled open. Pausing, he turned to the man huddled half-conscious in the corner of the empty cell. "No more games."

 

 

 

 

 

Han sat nursing his third drink of the morning, listening to the buzz of the Third Strike cantina, and trying very hard to ignore the feeling in his gut.

Something was wrong.

Luke hadn't arrived yet. He should have been here this morning. He should have fixed the comm on the _Falcon_. They should have landed somewhere back in the Capital so they could've gotten out of there together in the first place.

He'd already been to see Karrick—twice. He'd wandered the docking bays on all three linked islands—not that they were actually islands, of course. In reality the Tyren Islands were a group of three massive habitation platforms atop a trio of towering industrial factories, originally given over to low-budget housing but as often happened in such areas, slowly taken over by less scrupulous tenants. It was here he'd sat in the Third Strike cantina and waited…and waited.

He ran through his memory again—he was sure he'd said the Third Strike— _sure_. And the kid was careful—he'd grown up on a pretty inhospitable planet where people didn't take chances. With no way to contact each-other, he'd follow the plan as agreed and he'd check in as soon as he got here. And if he couldn't…he'd sure as hell find a way to let Han know, if only in the amount of trouble he caused when they captured him, so that everyone was talking about it.

Something was wrong.

He'd sent out a short call on the emergency frequency late last night, leaving only a comm sign of his own, knowing that the Alliance would contact him. It was standard Alliance operating procedure: no names, no places, just a contact reference and an active code number.

He'd figured by the time that Luke got here, they'd already have contacted him in reply. Figured he'd barter that flashy little skimmer he'd flown here in for parts for the _Falcon_ , then they'd fix the old bird and blast off this high-class rock, not a moment too soon. In fact he should…

He interrupted his own thought, gut twisting again: skimmer. He'd barter the _skimmer_...

A stray memory had cut in, of Luke's words yesterday.

_"Do you have your skimmer's call-sign? Actually, don't say that on the open comm."_

_"Your skimmer's call-sign..."_

_Idiot!_ Han upbraided himself. _Why didn't you spot it?_

How could Luke know that? How did he know Han had stolen a _skimmer_? Han hadn't mentioned it—not once. There were all kinds of speeders and skiprays and shuttles in that hangar—how could the kid know he'd taken a _skimmer_ if he hadn't still been watching on security images?

Which meant he'd still been in the ops room he claimed he'd abandoned…which meant that he hadn't been anywhere near the docking bay or the _Falcon,_ or any chance of escape.

Han's mind raced now, pulling the pieces together, remembering other snippets of conversation—

_"Do you remember that safe harbor… Meet there?"_

Meet there how? Han had never given Luke the actual co-ordinates of the Tyren Islands. _He'd never given them._ He shook his head, sighing out frustration and dismay as realization of what the kid had done began to seep through.

"You should have gotten yourself out," Han murmured quietly, knowing why the kid had played it that way, but desperately wishing he hadn't.

He was still staring blankly at the table when his comlink sounded.

For a split-second, he thought it was Luke—thought he'd been wrong about everything and the _Falcon_ had just limped into port somewhere nearby, battered and broken and a little worse for wear, just like its pilot. But still in one piece—and _here_.

He wrenched it from his belt. "Yeah!"

"Sir, we received a comm on this line. Could you identify yourself, please?"

Han felt himself slump again, hope evaporating. "My ID's 77285. I'm attached Unit one-oh-nine. I need a pickup and a channel through to _Home One_ as soon as possible."

"Stand by, sir. We're confirming that ID."

Han waited, mind already beginning to work again…

This was okay, he could make this work. He'd get back to the Rebel base, pick up a few commandos…he could be back here within a week or so. He knew the Palace layout, he had Luke's probable location... Yeah, that would work. Even if the bigwigs thought it was unfeasible, which they probably would, then Han could rustle up a healthy contingent among the kid's friends to make a raiding party. Luke often piloted undercover missions for Madine's Special Ops, and they didn't mess around. Kid was pretty popular; Han'd have a good choice of able bodies…

"Hang on, Luke," he muttered, worried what reprisals the kid might be facing now. "Hang on."

 

 

 

 

 

"And how are you today, my friend?"

The easy, amicable words floated through a haze of vague awareness as Luke came round slowly, a shock of pain jolting through him as he tried to move his head towards the voice, aware that he was lying on the freezing floor where he'd fallen yesterday.

He didn't bother trying to answer.

Instead, he forced his eyes into focus in the dim light of the room, unsure why it was so dark, his senses thrown off by the constant curve which gave no delineation between the walls and ceiling, the cell a perfect half-sphere. Vaguely, looming over him, he could make out the towering form of Palpatine, dark, vermillion red robes whispering against Luke's face, so close did he stand.

All he knew—all he knew in the whole of creation—was that he had to close his eyes and rest. His left arm and his right ankle stabbed sharply with every heartbeat, arm broken near the wrist, fingers burning from the same. He blinked slowly, and when he opened his eyes again, the Sith was somehow several paces back, sitting on the chair, watching him.

Luke took in a sharp breath, which sent another jolt of pain through his tight chest. How long had he closed his eyes? He had no idea—none at all.

"You have used a healing trance," the Emperor observed dispassionately, igniting foggy memories in Luke of waking in the darkness hours ago and summoning all his strength to guide his mind to meditation.

Master Yoda had always spent so much time drilling into him the ability to do this anywhere under any circumstances; he'd seen the vision of Cloud City whilst balancing upside down on his hands, arms aching and head pounding from maintaining the unnatural position for so long. Now, finally, he understood why: understood the importance of being able to summon that mindset without conscious effort, to create that connection with the Force instinctively—a lesson he wished he'd not had to learn.

"This is unacceptable," the Sith stated levelly as if it were a statement of fact. "It will not happen again."

 

Palpatine had woken in the early hours of the morning, the strident, discordant timbre of the Light side of the Force grating against the Darkness which he had wrapped about himself for so long, knowing that it could be no other than the boy, and it was immediately obvious what he was doing. There was little premeditated awareness, but the control was accurate and precise—flawless. Perfect attunement, even then…one had to appreciate that.

It was, of course, quite unacceptable; it slowed the course of Palpatine's intentions, and as such was to be dealt with ruthlessly. "If you do it again then I will simply injure you further…and further, until you are no longer capable of healing."

The boy didn't react; didn't move at all, remaining on his back, broken arm cradled across his stomach, breathing so heavily that from his chair several feet away, Palpatine could see the beat of his heart against his ribs; hear it catching in his breath.

He had every intention of taking his Jedi down that shadowed, arduous route anyway, but it was important that the boy felt he had no control, particularly in his connection with the Force—and of course the drug which Palpatine had invested so much in having developed would now come into its own.

DNA-specific drugs were commonplace, as were self-replicating drugs, but this one, capable of maintaining a constant chemical level in the body even against a Jedi's midichlorian-laden blood, had been two years in the making. Ironically, Palpatine had first supplied his chemists with a sample of Vader's blood, for the sole reason that he hadn't wished to supply his own, and the blood of a Force-sensitive was necessary in order for them to learn how to deal with midichlorian content. But with the boy's identity came the realization that the samples his chemists had been working with, would already be conveniently close to the required formula.

Such ironies always made life interesting…but it was challenges like this which made it truly compelling.

The drug would enable Palpatine to ensure that the boy had no access to his precious Force unless Palpatine allowed it, his mind too diffuse. It guaranteed specific, precise levels; enough to render him sedated beyond conscious thought if Palpatine were not here, or merely sluggish and listless before his persecutor, disoriented and passive, as he was now.

"Sit up," Palpatine ordered, and despite the drugs, he was unsurprised when the boy ignored him. Pleased, even, in some self-indulgent way.

He set his head to one side, studying the still form before him. Already the featureless white tank vest the boy wore was stained by uneven smears of dry brown blood, his bare arms and shoulders scuffed, face grazed, nose bloody.

Now, today, the game began. The _true_ game, mind against mind, will against will, nothing hidden, nothing held back, anything and everything justified.

How long would he last? Days? A week even?

How long before the fight was beaten out of him, leaving only that wonderfully stubborn, willful drive to endure—to survive—and Palpatine could reach within that stormy mind and twist it…watch it snap.

The boy turned, perhaps sensing some shadow of that eager craving, and Palpatine allowed a thin, impious smile to his bloodless lips; let the game begin.

 

Yellow eyes came to pale blue as Luke turned, sensing some inverted twist of Darkness, and abruptly the Sith's full attention focused on him. A burst of confined energy sang out through the Force like a knife-edge, making Luke flinch in anticipation—

But it wasn't directed at him; was only some benign order aimed elsewhere, and he breathed again, though he didn't relax.

 _Mara,_ he realized— _Mara's outside the cell._

The door cycled open and two guards entering in heavy, meaningful strides. It was only when he continued to stare at the door, waiting for Mara to enter, that Luke noticed that the corridor beyond was also dark...and it finally permeated through his tired mind that the dull shade was in his eyes and not the cell.

Strong hands grabbed him beneath his arms and hauled him upright, lighting a bright trail of pain through screaming muscles and making him gasp as his broken ankle grated nauseatingly, bone against bone, his breath misting in the cold air.

He was dropped down onto a second chair, which was scraped across the blood-stained floor to be pushed up against a table opposite Palpatine, who watched with cold, intent eyes.

The guards marched from the cell, leaving the two alone again.

Luke slumped, head weaving slightly as bouts of shivering tensed tired muscles, wanting nothing more than to lay back on the cold, hard floor and sleep. He looked down to the table, to his bruised, bloody hand resting there, gazing for long seconds before realizing that his hands were bound together by a long, thin wire, looped around each wrist and re-fused back into itself.

He stared with faltering concentration at the wire, remembering seeing it before, though he couldn't begin to bring back the memory of when…

 

The Emperor sat in watchful silence, waiting for his Jedi to come round.

"You should realize," he said at last, "that what I did to you yesterday, I will do again today."

The boy looked up at that and Palpatine paused, giving him time to consider this before pressing forward. He expected neither reply nor acknowledgement, just understanding, and he saw that in those dull, wary eyes.

"As soon as you defy me, I will deliver retribution. Remember my warning—think very carefully about your actions. You know I will not hesitate."

Though the words spoken were calm and moderate, the threat contained within them clearly pushed a surge of adrenaline through the boy, who widened his eyes, visibly forcing himself awake.

Comfortable that he had the boy's attention now, Palpatine settled back again, eyes never leaving his Jedi.

"We should, I believe, clarify our positions. You see, you are not the first Jedi I have broken..." He grinned. "Though, all things considered, I think we can safely say you will be the last."

He let his smile fall away, leaving that cold, hard, pitiless stare. "But you should know I have broken others just as resolute and just as committed as you. I have never failed. I am very good at this. It is my forte, my fascination, my passion…an indulgence which I allow myself."

He paused for long seconds, eyes shining in the low light, attention focused completely on his captive, sensing the twist of persecuted apprehension tingling down his Jedi's spine. Slowly, contentedly, he let out a lingering breath, his eyes narrowing, his voice settling back into a calm, detached state—though not one whit less dangerous.

"But because of your father—because he has served me well without this necessity, then I am willing to give you one final chance to do the same. His loyalty, and nothing else, has bought you this opportunity. But I want you to understand that this is your final chance. I want you to understand just exactly what is at stake.

"You can either remain here, like this, day on day, to be ground slowly away, broken down one beating after another until all that is left are these walls, my will and your failing, faltering resolve...or you can walk from here now, today. You can end this ill-conceived, delusive, futile opposition and answer the question I am about to ask of you. If you do this, that door will open and you will return to your quarters, obey my commands, explicit and implicit, build for yourself the future for which you were destined…and think yourself very, very fortunate. Those are your choices now—you will obey, or I will make you obey. Either way, you _will_ yield. That is not open to interpretation. It will happen… Do you understand?"

Staring at his own battered hands, head down, expression neutral, the boy said nothing, neither denial nor acceptance.

Palpatine settled back again, giving him time to consider. Then… "I am looking for someone. And only you know where he is…"

Again, he allowed the silence to hang heavy between them, knowing that his Jedi already knew the question he would now ask. It was the absolute test of allegiance, a choice that had to be made. There could be no vacillating, no ambiguity. The boy either answered, or chose not to answer—which was an answer in itself.

"Tell me…where is Master Yoda?"

Skywalker hesitated for a fraction of a second before he shook his head, slowly but very deliberately. But he hesitated, Palpatine saw.

"Are you _very sure_? Are you _sure_ that this will be your answer? Think carefully—ask yourself why it matters to you. He betrayed you. He lied to you, he manipulated you, and he used you. You are protecting a creature who intended to send you to fight a duel which would result in your unknowingly killing your own father—a creature who considered you tainted before you were even born. Why are you protecting him?"

The boy only stared at his own broken fingers, hooded eyes blinking slowly.

"I ask for just one word. A place—a planet—tell me this, and you need do nothing more. Your involvement is done. No one will ever know outside of this room. I offer this without condition, without dishonor."

Palpatine reached forward to take the fine wire cable which bound his Jedi's hands, pulling it towards himself across the table and bringing the boy's hands with it, his shoulders falling forward without resistance as he pulled in a sharp breath, eyes on his broken wrist.

"I am offering you an opportunity, my friend—the possibility of walking from this cell whilst you are still capable. It will not be offered again, believe me. You are at the very brink of your physical limits, and you know it. Don't sacrifice yourself out of stubbornness or blind, misplaced loyalty. Consider what you are about to do. Consider what I am offering you. Consider the alternative."

Still the boy did not move, body tensed against the offer.

"A single word will buy your freedom from this cell. From this sentence."

Finally Skywalker lifted his head to meet Palpatine's eyes. "And from you?"

The Sith smiled and released his hold on the binders and settled back. When he spoke, his voice was amused and indulgent. "A single word will buy you a great deal, my friend. But not that—not yet. But it will buy trust."

"I don't think you're capable of that."

The Emperor stared at the boy who met his eyes evenly, though Palpatine could see the barely perceptible sway of his head as he fought the dull drag of drugs and injury. Stubborn little creature that he was though, he would not blink under Palpatine's hard gaze.

Foolish—reckless, to defy on such an unimportant thing, when he knew what the repercussions would be.

The Jedi shook his head, adamant against Palpatine's demanding stare. "I won't tell you where he is."

Palpatine's eyes narrowed as he reached out through the Force to read that headstrong mind, knowing that if Yoda was in his thoughts in this moment, then his location must be too. But the boy gathered what control he still had, head tilting slightly at the effort, the barrier effectively blocking entry to hold Palpatine at bay.

They remained locked in silent opposition for several seconds, the air charged in sympathetic resonance…

Abruptly, Palpatine rose, turning away to walk quickly into the shadows of the small room as the boy flinched slightly.

He spoke without turning, his face hidden by the hood of his heavy cloak, so that his disembodied voice came from the shadows within. "Do you truly believe that you can stop me?"

 

Luke hesitated, keenly aware of his fatigue and his injuries…but again, he just couldn't help but meet the confrontation head-on. "I believe that if you could take the information by force, you would have done so by now."

It wasn't spoken as a challenge, but he knew Palpatine would allow no perception of weakness or equality—not here. The Sith turned, his half-lit face pale in the low light, harsh shadows on sallow skin. "The time for games is over."

Luke sensed the static build in the air, the inrush of power making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Adrenaline pumped his heart hard against his ribs, muscles tensing against the invisible threat, fingers tightening about the wire which bound them, breath coming shorter. But he would not back down—not to this.

Lowering his face, looking straight ahead, he took several shallow breaths, aware that Palpatine was waiting…daring him. Knowing the consequences… "I thought we were no longer playing gam..."

His words were lost against the bright burst of kinetic energy which drove the air from his lungs with more power than any physical blow could muster, throwing him bodily from the chair to land in a crumpled heap several feet away, gasping for breath, curled up defensively, for all the good it did him.

In the silence that followed, the chair toppled to its side, loud against the hard floor.

 

 

Palpatine watched, emotionless, as the boy struggled to breathe around the blow, unable to do more in that moment.

"Where is Master Yoda?" he said simply, his hands rising again toward the boy, who gasped in pain, clutching at his ribs, eyes closed.

Without hesitation, Palpatine threw the Force lightening again, hurling him back, making him cry out.

"Where is Master Yoda?" he repeated, hands remaining pointed at the boy, infused with a blue-white corona of contained power.

He gave his Jedi several seconds to be sure that he had understood, then threw the lightening at him again, pitching him back against the far wall, his cry ending abruptly as his breath left him.

Calmly allowing his hands to drop, Palpatine walked to the struggling youth, whose breath rasped laboriously, the thought of resisting, of defending himself in any way, completely beyond him. Palpatine crouched down before the boy, lifting his head as he heaved in breath, his nose bloody, the skin of his face grazed raw against the floor, old wounds made new again.

When he spoke, his voice was mild and quiet and absolutely without pity. "Where is Master Yoda, child?"

The boy closed his eyes, looked away. Gently, Palpatine placed his hand against that heaving chest, using his other hand on the boy's jaw to hold his head up. "Where?"

The shock jolted the Jedi's muscles into spasm, throwing his head back in agony so that he cried out, the sharp actinic light momentarily creating bright daylight in the darkened cell, focused energy searing the frigid air with the sharp, metallic smell of raw power.

When he stopped the boy slumped, barely conscious now, breathing heavily against the pain. Again Palpatine lifted his head. "Where is Master Yoda?"

He brought his hands to Skywalker's face, half-smiling as the boy gasped breathlessly, gratified at his obstinacy, amazed that he held fast against this. Clamping his palms over burnt, blood-streaked cheeks in preparation to deliver another strike, he rested his thumbs over the boy's eyes as they flickered shut, the corona about them brightening and strengthening…

"Nnn—" It was not quite an entreaty that Skywalker clamped down on, but one more shock would have rendered him unconscious anyway, so Palpatine paused, allowing the energy to dissipate with only the mildest shock, which the boy still flinched violently against, breath hitching in anticipation.

"No?… _no_? Does your resolve crack so easily, that you ask for mercy already? How weak you are, child."

The truth was that the boy would not yet provide him with the information, so Palpatine chose not to ask again, rather than allow him this victory. Chose instead to twist the moment to make his Jedi believe he had failed. So he reached out to wipe at the blood which was flowing over his split lips, his empty gesture unopposed as he leaned in close to whisper against the boy's grazed and bleeding skin, "How fragile you are, Jedi. How easily you give over control. You have the power to stop this and you know it. It's within you...it most surely howls, like a wolf in the darkness. You say you want freedom, yet you refuse the one thing which can grant you the power to take it. I am not your enemy child, I am your savior...and I will do whatever it takes to drag you from their control, to drive you to enlightenment."

 

 

Luke heard the words only distantly, diffused by the cloud of intense, debilitating pain which dragged at his failing senses, demanding that he close his eyes and drift to inviting oblivion as he struggled to breathe through the ache in his ribs.

The heavy, grating double-retort of the opening door vibrated through the cold white floor into his body, igniting a new burst of pain which took his breath away as his tormentor leaned closer to brush Luke's scoured cheek, nails against raw skin as he murmured, "One day, you will thank me for this."

Vaguely, the world on its side, Luke saw the hazy image of Mara Jade enter the room, pausing to bow reverentially to the Emperor as he stood, the heavy folds of his blood-red cloak blocking out Luke's vision.

"Drug him," Palpatine said simply as he walked away, the scarlet cloak whispering a trail across the floor behind him.

Mara came closer to crouch into his field of vision, her green eyes momentarily registering… what? His pain-wracked mind couldn't decipher anything in that moment. She turned to glance at the Emperor, but he was already at the door, blurring to nothing in Luke's dimming vision.

He felt her take his broken arm and roll him onto his side in an intense burst of agony which whited out his vision, coursing from ankle and wrist again and again, though he was unable to cry out.

She lay his unresisting head against his arm so that he wouldn't choke, then rested the small case she carried on the bare floor to load up the syringe. Any thought of resisting was already hazing into darkness as he felt the sharp jab in his vein, almost too small to register against greater injuries.

His muscles relaxed into heavy submission against the power of the drug and his last memory was of her face, eyes strangely intent on his own, her hand reaching hesitantly out to him…

Then the darkness enveloped him, his own ragged breathing loud in his failing awareness.

 

 

 

Palpatine walked away without looking back, content at the outcome of this encounter—that he had once again been able to establish his dominance over his Jedi, been able to push him a little closer to that edge. True, he had not gained the whereabouts of Master Yoda, but that was, like the diminutive Jedi Master himself, little more than a minor annoyance. More importantly, it had provided him with a context with which to exemplify his own resolve, to make clear to the boy what his life would be from now on, since he had chosen to continue along this foolhardy path.

Everything held a price, and from now on the boy would learn this. Any refusal, any resistance would be met with absolute, unyielding force.

Whether Palpatine had gained Yoda's hiding place or not was immaterial—well, perhaps not quite that. Perhaps…

Palpatine smiled. Yes…yes, the final punishment for this particular defiance would be a while in coming, but would be all the more precious for it. When he had brought the boy to Darkness, when he controlled this new Sith completely, the boy would most surely tell him. Willingly. The Force had whispered of such. And the first task he would set his new Sith would be to return to Yoda's hiding place, and destroy the Jedi Master himself.

Yes; in truth he already had the power to remove the troublesome Jedi Master—he lacked only the conviction. And Palpatine would provide that; his will, his word as law.

He laughed in gratified anticipation to no one but himself.

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

 

 

** CHAPTER SEVENTEEN **

 

 

Standing in the brooding, opulent grandeur of Korriban Hall, the looming ante-chamber to the Emperor's grand, sprawling apartments in the South Tower, Vader was well aware that Jade, the Emperor's Hand, watched him with narrowed eyes as he awaited his Master's convenience. He had arrived back on Imperial Center only hours ago, and he knew well that his Master would find some other task which would send him far away from here. He didn't want Vader near when he was dealing with his son—didn't want that complication.

And Vader was only too willing to oblige. To be here now was…uncomfortable. If the boy would just _relent_. He knew his Master, knew what he intended. Knew what he would do to gain it.

Staring out across the teeming, impersonal darkness of the city-planet, Vader willed his own insular composure, a heavy, familiar indifference which had always been both calming and smothering for decades now…until his son had arrived, firing old ambitions with an unanticipated twist.

 

Mara seethed as she watched this hulking brute standing in silent meditation, unaffected by her scornful glare.

How could he be here, now? How could he stand so calm and unmoved when he knew what was happening to his own son?

When she had been called down to the detention level just hours after the expiry of the twelve-week agreement which had held Skywalker to an uneasy truce, Mara had known that Palpatine would have been livid. Had known that his fury would have been directed at Skywalker.

Not because he had defied Palpatine, but because he had succeeded so effortlessly.

But she hadn't been prepared for his injuries. She should have been. Knowing her master as she did, she should have been, but this...this had affected her in ways she hadn't anticipated. Ways she was finding it harder and harder to ignore.

She couldn't leave it alone—she _had_ to speak. "Will you be visiting your son, Lord Vader?"

"No," he replied without turning.

"How convenient," Mara murmured, turning away.

Vader rounded on her, his venom laced growl taking her by surprise in its intensity. "You know _nothing_ of this!"

Shocked as she was, Mara wasn't intimidated. Her position afforded her protection even from Vader, and though she didn't think she could take him in a fair fight, she had never fought fair in her life. Either physically, or with words...

"But I do know the Emperor, and I know what he'll do. As do you."

But if Mara wasn't above taking unfair advantage, then Vader was all too ready to follow suit. "And why would you care?"

That reduced her to silence for long seconds, having no legitimate reply. Eventually Vader turned away, the conversation finished as far as he was concerned. As far as Mara was concerned, she was only just warming up.

"I doubt he would recognize you now, anyway."

Oh, that was a body-blow. She had the satisfaction of seeing him stiffen at her barbed words, so casually uttered. For long seconds he stared at her, but just as she thought he might actually show some speck of human compassion for his son he turned away again, his voice stony.

"If he had done as I had said, I could have protected him. I would have brought him here a Sith, given him the power to face any enemy."

All her anger and frustration boiled over at that unaffected rebuff. "For _you_. To remove _for you_ the last impediment to _your_ rise to power. The only thing which you hadn't the strength or resolve to remove yourself."

"Have a care," Vader growled as he turned to step close, towering over her. "You are not nearly as far beyond my reach as you believe."

"Nor you mine," Mara assured, willing herself to stand her ground in the face of that looming threat. "I know what you want—what you've always wanted."

"I serve my Master," he said, bass tones rumbling through her chest.

Mara raised her chin. "To what end?"

"To whatever end he desires."

The lie came easily, Mara knew—he had spoken it so many times perhaps he even believed it himself. "And the life of your son doesn't factor into that?" She knew him so well—knew exactly how to provoke him, how to bring down his guard, as she did now.

"You could not possibly understand. This is his destiny. He will become more powerful than any Jedi—any Sith. More powerful than the Emperor."

Mara tilted her head. "That's treason."

"It is _destiny_. Even the Emperor bows to that. Even Luke must, eventually. He could no more escape it than—"

"There's no such thing as destiny, we make our own. Don't try to validate your actions."

"Did he _make_ this destiny? Is it by _choice_ that he is here today?" Vader snapped, silencing her. "Do you think I wanted to see him hurt?"

That last threw Mara—the frustration in his voice, the subtle vein of repressed unease. It tempered her own voice in reply, though she couldn't hide the challenge. "You brought him here, to the Emperor."

Vader turned away, all emotion reined in again. "If he does as he is ordered, then no harm will come to him."

"You know he won't do that." Mara stepped back into the Dark Lord's range of vision, demanding attention. " _I_ know he won't do that and I'm only a bystander. How can _you_ not!?"

"He will do as he is told, eventually," Vader said dispassionately. And Mara knew he was right…but she knew the cost.

"Yes, he will. Whatever the Emperor molds him into he _will_ be," she allowed, the words contained within a long sigh of absolute certainty. "But it won't be Luke Skywalker, no any more. Luke Skywalker will be long gone, driven out to make room for the Emperor's new Sith."

Vader turned incrementally at this, though Mara had no idea if he was looking at her or not, behind that obsidian mask. No idea if he felt anything at all on hearing the truth in her words—neither guilt nor compassion nor loss.

No idea why she did.

The silence hung heavy, long minutes timed out by Vader's labored breathing…

"Destiny demands a price," he rumbled at last.

Mara slumped, her own voice dull, laced with defeat at the realization. "You'll let Palpatine destroy him, won't you?"

"The Emperor will give him everything." Vader's voice was a study of restrained logic. "Power, authority, status."

"And the fact that he doesn't want those things doesn't figure at all, huh?"

"He should want them."

"Why? Because you do?"

That brought his head around. "Because it is his right."

"His _right_? Have you seen him," Mara blurted out. "Do you have any concept of what he's going through—what rights he's had taken from him?"

Vader only turned away in dispassionate, willful denial.

"You have no idea what Palpatine…" She broke off, unable to accuse her master despite her knowledge. Despite the fact that when she closed her eyes, it was Skywalker who she saw, battered and beaten. Skywalker for whom she felt a creeping empathy regardless of her every conscious rebuff; his sense in the Force that assaulted her dreams, fragmented and tormented, lost and alone.

"It is worth the price," Vader said evenly. "He will understand that one day. This is a necessary evil."

"For _what_?"

"That he may serve... become worthy in the Emperor's eyes. Inherit that which he deserves."

And there it was. Vader wanted for his son the one thing he knew he himself would never have: the Empire. And that ambition blinded him to all other concerns—even this.

Palpatine believed that Vader had already tried unsuccessfully to turn his son to his own cause, Mara knew. Failing that, he seemed to have a new goal—to attain through his son all the ambitions that he could not himself fulfill. It was hardly a new concept—Mara had seen many times the outrageous extremes which over-zealous parents pushed their children to, in an effort to gain them eminence in her master's Court. But this was contemptible even by their standards.

 _How far is too far? He must feel something for his son in order to want this for him. If he saw him…_ A momentary spark of hope flared in her chest.

"You should see him," she murmured quietly.

Again the Dark Lord hesitated for a long time, then, "That is not necessary."

 _Coward._ She was frustrated as much by her own spineless, impotent inability to act as she was by Vader's.

"I hope you realize how high that price is—for your son and yourself. Or do you seriously think you'll stay in favor now?" Vader turned at that, and Mara felt a cruel smile form unbidden on her lips. "You're the old model, Lord Vader. Yesterday's vogue. Dispensable. Your son may well come to the throne, but you'll never see it."

The high double doors of Palpatine's private quarters swung open to a long row of scarlet Royal Guard who lined the main hallway beyond as Cordo, the Emperor's aide, gestured expectantly.

Mara bowed with mock courtesy. "The Emperor will see you…for now."

 

She wasn't surprised to hear that Lord Vader left within the hour for his fleet in the Rim Worlds, immediately on taking his leave of the Emperor...

He didn't try to see his son.

 

 

 

 

Han sat on the poky little light freighter heading back to the Rebel fleet, mourning his loss of the _Falcon_ , wondering where she was now and how he could get her back.

She was his first true love—well, maybe not his _first_ , but she'd stayed with him the longest…and he sure as hell had spent the most credits on her.

And all his gear was on her…. He sighed, rolling his eyes. Chewie's bowcasters were onboard—both of them. The Wook was gonna kill him. He pulled another face, realizing that his range rifle was onboard too—and his holdout.

"Man…" he moaned aloud in frustration.

The Iridonian pilot in the seat next to him glanced over, her eyebrows raised in question.

"Ah, I just realized that all my stuff's on the _Falcon_ —my ship. The Empire've impounded it."

The woman dropped her head to one side, shaking it in consolation. "Say goodbye to that, friend."

She was young, maybe the same age as Luke or Leia, Han figured, with olive skin and big, dark eyes, her hair pulled back into a bound tail at the nape of her neck, the multiple short, blunt horns on her head still little more than bumps.

Han glanced out to the starfield before him, feeling strange not to be the one calculating the next jump—not to be in the _Falcon_. "No, not that old girl—she's a homing bird, I'll get her back. Besides, I've got to—my partner'll kill me."

"I'm sure you can take care of yourself," the girl said, amused.

"He's a Wookiee," Han said pointedly.

"Oh, well, maybe not." She grinned then, as if this confirmed her suspicion, added, "So I guess you _are_ Han Solo then?"

Han had introduced himself just by his first name when they'd met in the docking bay, and the woman had done the same—Astrig.

She'd patched him through on a secure holo-channel to _Home One_ almost as soon as they'd cleared the atmosphere, telling him she'd been instructed to do so then leaving him alone in the cockpit.

He'd spoken to Leia—just for a minute and she'd seemed kinda…strained—but they'd spoken, and damn, it was good to see her again, even like this. She'd smiled and they'd gone through the pleasantries; 'you've lost weight,' 'yeah, prison food does that to you. You look good though,' 'Me? This old thing?' 'Chewie okay?' 'He's fine, he's been helping out the techs—or terrorizing them, depending on who you're listening to.'

Strangely, she'd not once mentioned Luke—not asked where he was or if Han had seen him; nothing. Then, at the end of the conversation, she'd asked him not to speak about Luke to anyone…nothing at all. Seemed pretty insistent. He'd wondered what the hell was going on, but let it pass, said okay. Maybe they had something lined up to get him out. Yeah, that was it; they already had something in mind, which would be why she hadn't mentioned the kid.

Han had wracked his head trying to think how not mentioning Luke could possibly help to get him out, but came up a blank. Didn't matter though, clearly something was in the offing, which was good to hear.

And since no-one had said he couldn't blow his own trumpet, he looked at Astrig now, grinning. "Yeah, I'm Solo," he said easily. "My reputation precedes me."

She snorted her amusement. "Yeah, something like that." Then her face fell serious. "Sorry about Skywalker."

Han glanced away, uncertain what to say having just been asked to say nothing.

Clearly everybody hadn't had the same order, because the pilot continued freely, "My brother flew with him a few times. Said he was a great pilot…great Flight Commander. A natural, he said—always kept his flight one step ahead, always looked for a different angle. Fast up _here_ , you know?" She glanced up to Han as she said the last, grinning as she tapped her forehead. "Makes all the difference. My brother's in a B-Wing—Heavy Assault?"

She made it a question and Han nodded. "Yeah I know 'em. Good ships."

B-Wings were big, heavy fighters bristling with armaments and shields and designed to bring down prey ten times their size, even freighters and small frigates. When Han first joined the Imperial Fleet as a pilot, still optimistically looking to walk the straight and narrow, everyone flying everything from shuttles to bulk freighters and corvettes had been terrified of the Rebellion's new heavy-fighter, but the TIE's soon found their weakness; they were faster and more maneuverable than their intended prey, but way too slow to go up against a TIE or another snub-nose; the price you paid for carrying the kind of heavy armament that could pierce a corvette's hull. 'Target practice,' TIE pilots used to call them, if they didn't have faster support fighters running interference for them. Probably still did.

The young pilot nodded, obviously proud. "Been in it for three years now. Me, I'm waiting for a transfer to Gold Wing. Got my hours, got my wings, I just need a commission."

Han nodded easily. "A-4 or S-3?"

"S-3. I like company when I fly."

He nodded again, glad to be off the subject of Luke. "Yeah, I like a little bit more ship around me when I fly. Like to think they gotta shoot more bits off before they get to the pilot."

She shrugged easily, as sure of her own invulnerability as all fighter pilots were—you had to be, to be willing to get into a small metal box and launch into space on a regular basis, to let people take potshots at you.

"Thessy—my brother—said he went to the remembrance service after Hoth. Said a lot of people were pretty cut up about Commander Skywalker. Never met him myself, but…kinda wish I had, even once. Just to be able to say I met him, you know? The guy who took down the Death Star."

Han turned sharply to her, confused by how much her words sounded like a eulogy, but she didn't notice, and the nav computer chose that moment to pronounce its calculations complete.

"Jump's up," she announced, pulling the levers and launching the ship forward past the speed of light.

 

 

By the time they arrived at _Home One_ Han was burning to ask what the hell was going on. But when he stepped down the ramp onto the deck, Leia, Chewie and Lando were waiting, and everything else was forgotten, if only for a moment.

He took three big strides forward, gathering the princess up and planting a lingering kiss on those ruby lips. He'd promised himself he'd do that before anything else—figured it'd break the ice and anyway, if he didn't do it straight away, it may well be days before she'd let him near her again.

For a second, she leaned in to him, as eager as he was, then she pushed back, her hands to his chest, flustered and embarrassed all at once, big brown eyes glancing about the crowded flight deck.

"Ah, don't worry, sweetheart, I'm kissin' the Wookiee next," Han assured with a grin, turning to Chewie but keeping his arm to the small of her back.

"Chewie! How the hell are ya, you big rug?"

The Wookiee howled a welcome, arms above his head in pleasure.

Han leaned back slightly in mock consideration. "I swear you're gettin' bigger." He waited until the Wook paused in consideration, keening a query. "No, I meant around the stomach, pal."

Chewie whuffed good-naturedly, enveloping Solo in a bear-hug which took his breath away.

Finally, because he knew he'd have to sooner or later, he turned to Calrissian. "Lando," he said simply, face straight.

"Listen, Han…" Lando began, but Han cut him off, not ready to hear it.

"Don't even try yet, Lando. You dropped us all in big trouble, pal. Serious trouble. I can't just forget that—not yet. Not when Luke's still on Coruscant. He got us out, not you. _He's_ payin' for your mistakes." By the time he'd said the last, Han had raised his hand, finger pointing to Calrissian's chest.

Leia stepped in. "Han, Lando got us off Cloud City. He broke us out."

"Yeah, and that worked out real good, didn't it?" Han said, eyes not leaving Calrissian.

It was Chewie, with years of experience of the pair of them, who broke up the moment with a long-winded series of barks.

Han held Lando's eyes for a second longer before turning to Chewie, anger diffusing. "Me? What are you asking me for? You're the last one who flew her—don't'cha remember where you left her?"

Chewie keened a long reply to the fact that he remembered _exactly_ where he left her—and that was the problem.

"Ah, we'll get her back, somehow. Me, you and Luke'll go get her. It'll be a nice weekend out—kinda like a family outing."

Everyone fell silent at this, looking away, bringing an uneasy frown to Han's face.

"What?"

 

 

"You know I just…I don't even have an answer to that," Han said, bewilderment and anger coloring his voice. "Has everyone gone crazy? Is there something in the recyc water?"

"I'm sorry." It was all Leia could think to say in that moment—not least because it was true. She'd taken him to her quarters to break the news, knowing how this would go.

"He's…" Han shook his head. "C'mon, Leia—you know he's not an Imperial. You've just seen what they went through to get hold of him."

"Intel think it was a show—that they were trying to keep his cover intact, in case they needed to re-integrate him into the Alliance."

"That's copishit and you know it." Han's voice was hardening now.

Leia wasn't surprised. Everyone who knew Luke went through the same run of emotions: surprise, denial, anger, frustration…but acceptance, eventually. The facts were too many and too damning to ignore.

Not that many people did know. It had been decided that the official line would remain that Commander Skywalker died in the battle of Hoth. The Imperial agent who had recently been uncovered would remain unnamed. Official line on that was that the agent—a tech—had managed to pull out when they'd discovered his identity in the retreat from Hoth. To link the two accomplished nothing, save to show that Alliance security could be breached to a Command level, and they could do without that kind of morale-killer, both in personnel terms and in terms of their reputation.

"Han, I know it's hard to…"

"Hard! I know that kid—better than most, it seems. I've known him since… How do you explain Tatooine, huh? What the hell was going on there? What was he even doing there in the first place?"

Leia sighed. "They needed the location of the Rebel base at Yavin, Han. They couldn't get it out of me under standard interrogation on the Death Star, so they sent Luke in with a convincing back-story. He even managed to get hooked up with a trusted Clone Wars General and reel him in, too. The Imperials must have picked up Artoo straight off the _Tantive,_ then wiped his memory of the fact when they'd seen what he was carrying. I'd left _everything_ they needed to set up that whole scenario in Artoo—Kenobi's name, his last known location. What better way to get me to trust an Imperial agent than have him turn up with General Kenobi? I _led_ them to General Kenobi, and then back to Yavin Four. Because of Luke. Think about it, Han…who's the one person who didn't make it off the Death Star? Don't you think it's convenient that this plan just _happened_ to require General Kenobi to board the Death Star, and that the one person they'd not want to let free again, just _happened_ to be the one who didn't get off?"

"Didn't seem very convenient at the time," Han growled. "No, I don't buy this."

"Han, it's Luke's voice, on Luke's comlink."

"Voices can be faked," Han said.

"And then loaded onto Luke's comlink? When? Luke's container was locked—three techs were there when they blew the combination. Two weeks later the Bothans ID'd Luke as an Imperial agent based on his voice, on those comms, without knowing what we'd given them or where we'd gotten the voice fragment from. They didn't ID it as Luke Skywalker because for the first time, we'd asked them to run the recording through their Imperial Agents database. We got duped, Han. We all just got…"

"Well then, why the hell is he being held prisoner now?"

Leia shook her head. "I don't know. I don't know what they're doing. We have a few theories. I do know when I saw him, he wasn't being _held_ anywhere."

"You saw him on Coruscant?"

Leia nodded tiredly. "Yes, I saw him, the day after we arrived. He was still unconscious. I think he'd woken up briefly and asked to see me."

"Where was he?"

Leia frowned, remembering. "He was in private apartments in the South Tower. His presumably…they looked lived-in."

"The massive one with the long entrance hall—it opened out to a crossroads with a big domed glass atrium in the middle?"

Leia blinked in surprise. "Yes."

"That's where they were holding him. The whole time I was there, he was never allowed out of three rooms at the end of one of the corridors in that apartment. There were guards everywhere."

Leia shook her head, voice softening at Han's dogged determination. "There were no guards when I saw him, Han. Just Luke. All the doors were open. How often did you see him?"

Han frowned, clearly knowing she'd call him on this. "Once a week—almost. I missed a few. No set days or times."

"For how long?"

"An hour maybe. Sometimes less."

Leia looked down, shaking her head. "It's not enough, Han. It's not enough to challenge all this." She indicated the still-bagged comlink she'd borrowed from Intelligence, the data-chips of the deciphered messages, the reams of hard-copy documents from the Bothans. "This is too…"

"Well then why the hell did he get me out?"

Leia looked up at him, deeply uncomfortable. "I need to scan you." She turned to take a battered plasteel medical box from just inside her door, taking out a hand-held scanner to charge it up, her voice level with a kind of forced calm. "Do you have any cuts, Han? Any injuries you can't account for?"

"You think they tagged me?"

She didn't speak, didn't meet his eyes, only stared at the scanner as she set its search perimeters.

"C'mon—there's no tag small enough to hide in a human body that has enough range to track me here."

"No, but one could transmit a shorter distance. If they wanted to find out if there was an Alliance safe-house on Coruscant, for instance."

Han frowned in silence, uneasy at her words, and Leia finally looked up. "Did you mention anything— _any_ safe way to get off the Capital?"

"Not a safe-house—I didn't even know there was one on Coruscant. I said I knew a place we could hide 'till we got a pick-up from the emergency transmission, but it was a smuggler's place."

"The Tyren Islands." Leia nodded. "We've used them a few times. We can't anymore."

 

Han stared in silence as the Princess kept her eyes on the scanner she was setting up, avoiding his eye. In the long silence, Han's mind recalled fragments of conversations with Luke. He'd never once mentioned the exact co-ordinates of the Tyrens…and when he'd escaped they'd magically given him a ship and a reason to fly to there. _Their_ choice of ship…with any tracking devices they damn-well pleased aboard it, so they could stay nice and close. Close enough for a short-range tag to work if there was a booster on the ship he'd flown there in, so they could track him even if he left the skimmer.

In the hanger, hadn't Luke limited his choice of escape craft to two or three, though the hanger was full? He hadn't thought about it at the time—hadn't even considered it.

And where were all the stormtroopers? 'Cos they sure as hell weren't chasing Han when he was wandering through the Palace. He frowned, freshly uncertain…

"No," he said at last, shaking his head. "No, I _know_ him. The kid's not that guy."

"Take your jacket off."

"Okay, why wait twelve weeks?" Han asked, shrugging his borrowed Rebel jacket off—he didn't even have any of his own clothes anymore.

Leia sighed, starting a slow sweep with the scanner. "You and I had been alone for weeks before Bespin—maybe they figured they could pump you for any information I'd given you in that time. Keep you talking, keep you trusting."

"If they wanted information, why didn't they do all this with you?"

"Because I already knew who he was, Han. They'd made a mistake that day, in taking me up to his apartments—in letting me see who he really was…what he was."

Han set his head on one side emphasis in her words. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Leia sighed, stepping closer, pausing in her methodical sweep of Han's body with the sensor. "This is not common knowledge, and we intend to keep it that way. What I tell you is between you and me, understand?"

Han nodded, chest tensing…waiting for the next blow, he realized.

"You know Luke…sometimes did things. Unexplainable things. You know what his reflexes were like, how he played hunches…"

"I know he was…a Force-sensitive, a Jedi…" Han paused, still uncomfortable with saying these things out loud, "…whatever. Like Kenobi."

"No," Leia said, voice solemn. "Not at all like Kenobi."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Han heard the belligerent tone in his own voice.

 

Looking into his eyes, seeing the outrage and offence and that dogged Corellian loyalty, Leia realized she had no idea how to say this—so she just said it. "He's Vader's son. We think Luke is Darth Vader's son."

Han didn't say anything—which was somehow worse than an explosion, to Leia.

"We haven't verified it, but then I think it would be pretty hard to do. Since it isn't already common knowledge, we assume they don't want it to get out. The Bothans are trying to get a DNA key of Vader's blood—we already have one of Luke's from our own records, but getting hold of one from Vader is proving difficult. We do know without a doubt that he's the son of a member of the Emperor's personal entourage. That comes from a separate, reliable source…"

"Who the hell said Luke was Vader's son?" Han growled, voice low.

Leia swallowed against her dry mouth, guilt still welling up inside her at this. "Me. I found it out when we were being held on Coruscant. Someone let it slip…I wasn't supposed to hear."

Han looked at her, eyes dark and stormy. "So you came back here and you told them."

It was an accusation of betrayal and she knew it.

"Yes," Leia said, her own voice rising, determined not to feel guilty about this. Luke was a spy—an Imperial agent. She owed him nothing.

She resumed her scan, turning him to smooth it over his back, listening to his voice, rough with anger.

"You'd better be damn sure 'cos even if it's true, this is the biggest load of…"

The scanner squealed momentarily and Leia pulled it back to a point just below and between Han's shoulder blades. It shrilled again—a positive trace. Han fell silent.

"It's medium range. A new type we haven't seen before. Compact, short life. Maybe four or five weeks before the power cell runs out. Chewie, Lando and I had them taken out when we got here. The Empire was supposedly taking us to Kessel," Leia said neutrally into his questioning eyes. "On Neimoidia, we thought we'd managed to break free and contacted the Alliance cell there, to pull us out. Less than an hour after we'd left Neimoidia the Empire did a big sweep—took down two of our three bases there. We lost about fifty people. The bases they hit were the two bases that Chewie, Lando and I had passed through."

She didn't look to Han as she said this, unable to meet his eye. He raked his hand through his hair, shaking his head firmly.

"I can't do it—I'm not _gonna_ do it…. I'm not gonna turn on him. You're wrong."

"What would it take to convince you, Han?" Leia asked, frustrated all over again simply at having to churn this up one more time. "Look at the facts! You won't believe it until you have Luke standing in front of you, _telling_ you."

"Damn straight I won't. You say that like it's a bad thing!"

"Han, he was selling us out—he was never one of us in the first place!" She knew her voice had risen in response to his own, neither giving ground.

"You believe what the hell you want, _Highness_ , but I know I'm right."

"Against all of this?!"

"Yeah, against that! You know why? 'Cos that's just extrapolation and after-the-fact guesswork, and he's worth more that all your precious Intel reports and anything the Bothans just happen to unearth all of a sudden, 'cos _I know him_. He's like a brother to…"

Han didn't finish, only swept his hand in a gesture of dismissal and stormed out.

Leia was left to stand alone in the room, lost in her own thoughts, until eventually there was a light knock at the door. Sighing, she lifted her hand to the wall panel and it slid open. Han still stood in the corridor, head on one side, expression a wry mix of chagrin and embarrassment.

"I don't have anywhere to go," he said quietly. "I don't have a ship anymore."

She smiled sadly, leading him back into her room. "We'll get you a bunk, flyboy."

"Not with Chewie," Han managed a lopsided smile as he followed her. "He snores like a cranky swoop motor."

Leia sighed, her momentary smile melting away as she shook her head, unable to look Han in the eye. "What do we do with this?" she said, asking of the argument rather than the facts. She didn't want to lose what had only just begun over this difference, and she didn't think Han did either.

He sighed, looking to the floor. "I dunno, Leia. I really don't. I guess we'll just wait and see."

 

 

 

 

Palpatine watched the boy come round as Jade took her leave from the dimly-lit cell, bowing to her master, though he didn't bother to acknowledge it.

He was well aware of the conflicting emotions welling up in her, but confident that she would always do as he ordered. As such, it had become another minor entertainment, a diversion acted out for his own personal amusement. In the future, it would be twisted to serve his intentions, but for now it held little use other than to confirm that everything he wanted, even his most far-reaching goals, were attainable.

 _If_ he could make a Sith of his willful Jedi.

He watched dispassionately now, cold eyes appraising the boy as he struggled to wake against the drugs, broken arm clutched to him, splintered ankle bruised and swollen, face and body a mass of angry red welts and shallow cuts.

And yet he didn't yield. The boy was far better trained than Palpatine had expected—and certainly far more headstrong, tapping some as yet unbreached well of resolve, far too intractable to allow Palpatine a victory so easily, even with the drugs. But he was not yet beyond reach. And growing closer by the day.

 

 

Aware of Palpatine's eyes on him, Luke rolled over to his back, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his ribs, the shooting shocks which still burned through bone and muscle alike, reminders of yesterday's confrontation.

Reminders that today's was yet to come. He slowly relaxed stiff, aching muscles, trying not to wince, though he knew it made no difference—Palpatine would know anyway.

Was this the way it would go now? Only ever woken to face his nemesis, so that from Luke's point of view, he faced his captor every waking hour, never any respite? Palpatine was looking to break him down, he knew—to chip at his resolve hour on hour, day on day, never any reprieve, never any time to gather his defenses. Never any time to heal— _you know how this works, what he'll do…_

In his already-fragile state, realization made Luke's heart flutter and his stomach churn, the split-second fear of a grinding decline into defeat looming, crushing in its consequences.

_No. You will not give him victory this easily. If he wants control he'll have to drag it from you. You know how this works—how much is in the mind. Don't relinquish control._

He knew the game Palpatine was playing and what was at stake, though he had no idea how to counter it. No idea if it was even possible to do so…Luke broke the thought off by force of will, unwilling to think of the battle as already lost. Had his fa… had Vader faced exactly this choice once—this coercion? Ben had said he was a Jedi once.

Which begged the question—did he carry his father's weakness?

Or was Palpatine lying? If he was, then Luke couldn't detect the lie. But then the drugs kept his mind so still. Made it difficult to hold on to any thought.

He could call the Force to him and push them away, purge them from his system and clear his head momentarily, but he knew he couldn't sustain it, the self-replicating drug constantly pushing to regain the level it was designed to maintain, always persisting at the edge his consciousness, eager to crowd in. And every increment that it did, his hold on the Force was weakened, his concentration undermined, the precise, meticulous meditation required to heal himself shattered.

Luke focused his eyes again and dragged himself up to sitting, leaning against the wall to wait for the room to stop spinning…and realized that he was still watching the Emperor—that the Emperor was still watching him. That he was _listening_ , intruding on Luke's private thoughts as if it were his right.

"It is," said Palpatine with absolute authority. "I told you, you are mine now."

A momentary flare of outrage ignited within him at Palpatine's words, burning past the drugs and the exhaustion. It gave him the focus to pull the Force to him, to construct a mental shield around his mind.

The Emperor's eyes narrowed, baleful stare hardening as his voice took on an edge. "Think carefully before you challenge me. I _will_ stop you—you haven't the strength left to fight me."

For a second Luke hesitated, but his innate obstinacy kicked in again and fuelled his focus, so that he pushed Palpatine's hissing, malevolent presence from his mind, momentarily surprised by how easy it was—

The bolt of Force-lightening impacted against his chest, an incredible flare of blazing energy which threw his head back against the wall, its sustained burst lancing through him, locking his muscles and burning white-hot through body and mind alike….

When it finally stopped he collapsed forward with a gasp, though he made no other sound, grateful for the freezing cool of the blood-scuffed floor against his face. Vaguely, distantly, he was aware of Palpatine's push at his mind. Weakly, he pulled his thoughts back together into a shield—

He was flung back to impact against the wall behind him, the breath knocked from his lungs in a gasp as incredible pressure pushed in against them, holding them closed against his need to breathe so that his vision began to tunnel into darkness, chest heaving against the invisible weight crushing in against it, locked into this desperate struggle as reality blurred to a distant haze…

Some muted whisper called him to pull the Force about him, to turn it inwards…

The moment he focused the Force the pressure which bound his chest was gone and Luke lurched forward, dragging oxygen into burning lungs, unable to do anything more than breathe.

 

 

"I am uncertain what you expect to gain by this." Sitting casually ten foot away, Palpatine studied his Jedi, amused—energized even, by this fascinating war of wills. "Do you think you can indeed hold me out of your mind? You cannot and you never will. Do you think perhaps I will respect your defiant obstinacy? I desire nothing from you except obedience. Or perhaps you believe I will take pity on you and stop? Surely you know by now that I feel no such compassion. Tell me, Jedi, why do you fight when you know you can only lose?"

He smiled at the duality of his question, eyes intent on the boy. How weak this powerful creature could be, hobbled by the limiting rules inflicted upon it. He would show it power; he would break it free of them and bind it to him.

Terrified that he would turn as his father had, they had tried to keep the boy on too short a leash, but in doing so had bound him up so tightly with restrictions and rules that he could not fight back. The constraints they had sought to control him with would be the weaknesses which Palpatine would use to pry him from their paranoid grip. How poetic. When he held him body and mind, when he owned that wonderful, inflexible will, how his new Sith would appreciate the irony.

Eventually he stood and walked slowly towards the breathless, battered youth, driven to push him further, to goad a response from the boy simply so that he could retaliate again—re-establish his own dominance over this potentially dangerous creature.

 

 

 _Breathe. Just breathe._ With monumental effort, Luke forced himself to hold a breath for a moment so that when he released it in a scarlet-speckled gasp, the muscles in his chest had coordinated and he finally forced air into his lungs and oxygen around his starved body, coughing against the pain.

The Emperor crouched before him, watching all this with dispassionate eyes, the slightest of self-assured, indulgent smiles touching his pale lips. "Well?"

"Go to hell."

Palpatine laughed, scornful and provocative. "Is that the best you can do? Is that all the fight you have in you? Poor little Jedi, words are no defense against me. Do you understand yet? Do you understand that there is no defense against this power, save to take it and use it as your own? That to beat me you will have to become me, for only Darkness can fight Darkness, only fire can fight fire. Either you take this Darkness and master it, or it will crush you and destroy you, then reshape and rebuild you as _I_ see fit."

"No," was all Luke could push past gritted teeth and gasping breaths.

Palpatine clamped his hand on Luke's neck, hauling him upright with surprising force to push him back to the wall behind him, his weight on one leg. Battered and winded, he didn't have the strength to pull free as Palpatine leaned in, inches away.

"Then do your worst, Jedi. Stop me."

Luke froze mentally and physically, muscles locked against indecision. The Sith's goading words ignited a burning anger, and with it the promise of power enough to destroy this evil being. Easy power, asking only to be used, with no conscience or consequence to limit it. But he _would not_ use Darkness to fight Darkness. Not because of Ben or Yoda's warnings, nor because of Palpatine's spurs and provocations, but because _he_ knew…he knew in his heart that it was wrong.

Palpatine could strip away every other belief, every friend, every hope, until all that Luke had left was himself. But he still knew what was right and what was wrong.

"Well?" The Sith's breath whispered against Luke's skin, eyes burning with wicked glee.

He would not use Darkness to fight Darkness. He would die first.

Then die. Just end this. Why are you prolonging it? How many more times do you want to wake in this room?

_What are you waiting for? No one is coming for you, no one even cares anymore._

How easy it would be to provoke this twisted, bitter creature beyond reason. Easier than living, easier than fighting the Darkness which crept unbidden into every reckless thought now, igniting them with addictive power.

A win by default.

A short laugh escaped him at that, which spattered Palpatine's pale skin with dark blood, so close was his face.

Luke met the Emperor's eyes, suddenly very sure, his expression hard and alive, never more so than in this moment—

Closing his eyes he brought this head down, bone connecting with bone.

Palpatine reeled back and in that moment Luke felt a surge of elation at having caused injury to the one who had caused so much to him, at having drawn blood from the creature who had bled him dry for so long, even knowing what it would cost...

 

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

 

 

** CHAPTER EIGHTEEN **

 

 

Leia stepped onto the busy flight deck, eyes searching the familiar flight-suits, looking for the blue amongst the orange—for Han's flash of brown hair. He was leaning on his A-Wing, clearly having some heated disagreement with the technician, helmet held loose by the straps in his hand, making Leia fear he would swing it in a roundhouse at the tech's head any minute.

She stepped round the back of the tech to catch his eye. He glanced up, then back to the tech. "And I'm sayin' it's pulling. There's a fault in the shear."

He'd been informally flying with the A-Wings for several weeks now and had settled in without a hitch, re-acquainting himself with snub-fighters reassuringly quickly, with Chewie joining the same flight group as a tech—they were, as always, inseparable. Leia wasn't quite sure whether it was his close involvement in the day-to-day survival of the Alliance now that he had no _Falcon_ to retreat to, or whether he just couldn't go more than a few days without flying _something_ , but it was good to see him so involved. It was good to see that heart of gold.

The thought came instantly to mind that Luke had always had such faith in him, in his good heart. Just as quickly, she pushed it away.

"I checked the shear last time she came in," the tech maintained, holding his own. Tempers were always high with the flight crews—hours were long and staff were short. "There's nothing wrong with the shear."

"Well then it's the mix. Something's making her pull. I got the stick at two o'clock just to make her fly in a straight line."

"Fine," the tech said, exasperated. "I'll pull the assembly. You wanna take another ship?"

"No, I can handle her for now. Just do it when I get back." In a fit of guilt, he added, "Give me a shout when you're ready—I'll come help, okay?"

The tech nodded, mollified, and Han patted him on the shoulder as he passed to, walk quickly up to Leia, winking. "Hey, doll. Come to give me a goodbye kiss? I could get used to that."

"The Bothans have something," Leia said uneasily, as she always was when it came to Luke.

They'd pretty much learned that the only way to deal with this was agree to disagree and mention it as little as possible, which was becoming easier and easier now, the whole disturbing incident beginning to blow over. Except not for Han. Or Chewie, she suspected, though he kept quiet.

Leia handed her reader over to Han, who glanced at it, jaw tightening. The information had come in from the Bothan spy network, which had a close working relationship with the Alliance. It listed that their own spies in the Imperial Palace had seen a document fragment to the fact that an Agent named The Wolf had been withdrawn from active service, along with a request that all files pertaining to that name were deleted. It didn't list why, or give any clue as to who he was, only that he had been recalled from service.

Han read it without comment and handed it back to her. "Fine. Gotta go."

"Han." She reached out to take his sleeve. "Tell me you're not still going."

Han frowned, half-turning. "What?"

Leia set her head on one side. "To get him out. I know you're planning something."

Han pursed his lips, but said nothing. Leia sighed. "At least wait—wait a few more weeks. See if the Bothans can turn up a DNA key."

"I can't keep waiting, Leia—I can't just keep waiting. I waited because you asked me, because you said they'd find proof. But they haven't."

"What more do—"

"That's not proof, Leia. What if this is all just some game that Palpatine's playing, huh? What if you're wrong?" There was no challenge to his voice, just genuine, heartfelt concern.

"Why would they do that, Han?" Leia asked, and he glanced down, having no answer. She sighed. "What if we're right? What if we're right, and you go back and face him?"

"Well then at least I'll know. _Then_ I'll believe it."

"I don't think that will be much consolation when you're in an Imperial detention center. To you or to me."

His eyes lifted to her and Leia felt a flush on her cheeks at saying it out loud, but held her ground, for his sake. She knew how much he wanted to go after Luke—knew that she was the only thing which had held him back again and again…believed absolutely that she was right to do so. "Just a little longer. Please?"

He rolled his head to the side and she knew he'd wait…this time.

"I gotta go," he said, stepping up onto the A-Wing's footwell and swinging into the cramped cockpit without meeting her eyes.

Leia stepped back as the engines flared, Han's fighter the last to leave the hanger. One of these times, Leia wondered…would he just not come back?

 

 

 

 

 

Mara felt an unfamiliar twinge of emotion as she entered the dark, cold cell where Skywalker lay crumpled in a heap exactly where she had left him, his shallow breath misting in the frigid air. Laying the med-kit on the floor she gestured to the detention-center guard holding a bowl of water and a cloth to enter. He looked around the empty room in confusion before turning questioning eyes to Mara.

"Lay it there," she said simply, gesturing to the floor in front of Skywalker.

Keeping a wary distance from the unconscious man, the guard laid the bowl down in careful silence before pushing it a little closer at arms-length and walking quickly from the room.

Mara scowled at him as she took out an antidote ampoule and loaded the syringe. Was he afraid of Skywalker? If he wanted someone to fear, he should look to the Emperor. Luke wouldn't... She paused mid-thought as the implications of this hit her.

Why was she defending him?

Why was this affecting her so much, despite her every barrier?

She had watched without emotion as her master had taken out his wrath like this on others. Many times. She had willingly hunted down and delivered his enemies to him, knowing that she took them, helpless and horrified, to a terrible death. The Emperor was hardly known for his mercy.

So what was different now? Why had this man crept under and around all her barriers?

Was it because he was a Jedi—because he was the first person beside the Emperor whom she could sense? Or because she could always feel those expressive blue eyes on her, always asking but never judging.

Perhaps it was empathy because he was so very alone. Because she knew that in his position, with everything ripped away, every freedom, every hope, no one would come to her aid, either.

As she had left the opulent drawing room in his quarters in the Palace many weeks previously, Mara remembered hearing the Emperor tell Skywalker that she felt no compassion. The assertion which had previously seemed her master's greatest praise, the creed by which she had lived her life, now made her burn with humiliation.

But if she felt no compassion, then what was this?

The medical equipment had been removed just over a week ago, Skywalker being returned unknowing to the cold cell floor, as her master had ordered. It was eight days since he had lashed out with vindictive vengeance, driven to the act by Skywalker's actions. Since Palpatine had summoned her into the cell, to a shocking revelation.

Her eyes had widened at the sight of her master, who stood quietly brooding, his face bloody. _His_ blood. No one had ever drawn blood on her master before. No one could ever _hope_ to threaten him. _No one_. The repercussions had twisted her stomach into a tight knot as she'd scanned the room for Skywalker's body, sure that he would be dead. In the veiled shadows she made out his crumpled form, twisted awkwardly away from her, very still.

She remembered distinctly hearing her breath catch in her throat.

Lost in his thoughts, the Emperor had said nothing as she remained frozen to the spot, torn between who to go to first.

After long seconds of numb, paralyzing indecision she had started toward her master, who stirred from his reverie as she approached and gestured her away, pointing to the Jedi. Her heart in her mouth, Mara had crouched beside Luke and released in a rush of relief the breath she hadn't known that she was holding, at the realization that he was still breathing.

He was alive, but grievously wounded, his breath short and shallow, blood dripping in a viscous trail from his nose and mouth to pool in a dark stain on the cold white floor, though it was impossible to tell whether this was from internal injuries or the countless grisly lacerations hacked into bruised skin which bled profusely, appalling in their severity.

Realizing what Skywalker had done, she couldn't imagine for a second what had been going through his mind, that he would actually initiate an attack which he knew would be met with savage, merciless brutality. He was lucky to be alive.

Realization had hit her at that thought; that he hadn't expected to be—had done this intentionally.

He'd _wanted_ the ultimate response—and had done everything in his power to provoke it.

The Emperor had walked in silence to the door, lifting his hood to hide his face as he paused without turning, his grating voice remorseless, absolutely without pity. "Have a medic treat him. Not Hallin," he said quietly, before adding pointedly, "Mara—only what is life-threatening. Nothing else."

Mara had nodded wordlessly at her master's back, a strange, cold chill tightening about her heart and making her stomach twist. Tugging for the first time at the fringes of her own ambiguous, irresolute morals as she tried to turn away from the battered, mutilated man.

Eight days, just to treat the life-threatening injuries. Four days in bacta, unconscious, three more in high-dependency, one final day to get him off the machines... Then they'd brought him back here and laid him on the floor as if all that work to put him back together simply hadn't happened. Never once woken; never even knowing he'd left the cell. Brought him back here knowing full well that he wasn't ready; that he may well be back within the week, anyway.

And when she'd crouched down beside him to give the antidote which would wake him to face his tormentor again, she'd felt...something. Felt some part of herself crumple inside at her role in this. At his knowledge of that.

At the fact that she would have to face him again...

If she felt no compassion, then what was this?

 

She paused now beside Skywalker's still body, waiting a moment until the door was locked before she crouched next to him, trying not to see the bruises and the blood.

Her master had remained 'indisposed' following his explosive retribution on Skywalker, for the first time in fifteen weeks not visiting his prisoner. Whether this was because he was still too angry to return or whether it was simply to allow Skywalker the time to heal, Mara wasn't sure.

Perhaps he was contemplating his own unexpected loss of control, because he must surely have realized that the intensity of his attack had been purposely incited by the Jedi, and in her master's closely controlled and manipulated world, any being who had the ability to overturn his carefully constructed plans would be deeply unsettling.

Because everything had changed from that day on. Everything intensified, all previous rules falling by the wayside. The frequency of his visits, when her master finally returned, were stepped up to several per day. Drugged between visits, given practically no food or water, Skywalker would have no real concept of how long he'd been here, by now. No sense of day or night, of how long he was left between visits. If he was awake, it was to face Palpatine...and the guards.

Because her master had now taken to bringing a compliment of his Royal Guard to every meeting, each armed with a force pike, or similar. In fatigues rather than their usual ceremonial dress, they waited outside the cell, staring stony-faced at the regular Detention Center guards as the Emperor spoke to his captive. At the end of the discourse, sometimes before the Emperor left, sometimes after, they would be called in—more often than not when Skywalker was already lying bruised and battered senseless.

She didn't need to watch to know their purpose.

And always when the Emperor and his guards left, she was ordered to inject the SCA immediately, which would re-activate the drugs, giving them free reign in his system again. She disliked intensely having to wait in the corridor as her master held his 'discussions' with the Jedi. Their voices were always quiet, barely audible often for an hour or more, until Skywalker finally dug his heels in and did something which called down the Emperor's wrath.

Then they all heard, she and the ever-present guards. Heard him cry out, heard the Emperor throw the Force against him; heard the sickening, never-to-be-mistaken crack of the lightening searching to ground.

And when the cries died down, the Red Guards would be called into the cell.

For the first few days, it hadn't bothered the dozen or so guards who were always stationed along the corridor outside the cell. They had all expected the Jedi to be killed quite quickly, Mara knew, as their Emperor tired of torturing him. But he never tired of it; seemed to relish it a little more every day.

Now when the Emperor arrived, everyone was mute. No one made eye contact, even with each other. Everyone listened in the cold silence of the long featureless corridor, knowing…waiting.

 

Pulling his arm straight, careful to avoid the now-old break at his wrist, Mara hesitated for several seconds, eyes on the multiple fine needle scars where she'd injected him intravenously, searching for undamaged skin. Her heart collapsed a little more as opposing emotions raced. Somewhere, in some crushed and hidden corner of her soul which she had thought long dead, did she actually feel this was wrong? Or was it more personal than that? Was it that which scared her? Every day that distant voice got a little clearer, a little more perceptible.

She'd never really had a conscience—a set of rules yes, but nothing more—it had never been of value to her master. So perhaps the voice was not hers at all. But she heard it nonetheless, whispering at the fringes of her consciousness, leaching into her dreams at night. Not an actual voice. Not words; not like when Palpatine spoke through the Force, but there all the same. More basic, less attuned. Empathy.

She had to get away; this was becoming too confusing, too hard to control. She would ask Palpatine to give her another assignment.

But even as she thought it, Mara knew he wouldn't. If she'd had these thoughts, then her master knew; he always knew. Hadn't he asked her before if she had heard Luke; sensed him in her limited Force-perceptions? Hadn't her answer been a half-truth? She didn't hear him in the moment that her master had asked the question, so her denial had been true…in the moment. But she had heard him before, and many times after. Sensed him at the fringes of her perception; warmth, like stepping into sunlight—a tingle of affinity, both mental and physical. It drew her in, much as she tried to hold back.

Had this become a test, she wondered? Of her loyalty, her allegiance. Her master loved to test those around him.

But he had no reason to doubt her; her fealty was absolute, contact or not. She had always served him, as far back as she could remember. Resolute, she turned Skywalker's arm over, injecting instead into the vein on the back of his hand, sternly denying the urge to keep hold of it as he woke, to offer him this small comfort.

It would be unfair to give him false hope. Better he fall quickly; submit to Palpatine's will and have done. He was so close now, anyway. The man she had…what, felt empathy toward perhaps; some kind of recognition as a peer, respect for, no matter who they served.

More than that, perhaps—

It didn't matter. That man was gone now, grated away day on day by her master, twisted and distorted into what he desired.

This—all of this—was so unnecessary; Mara could have taken him directly to the Emperor's long-denied 'Behavioral Modification Center' and they could have delivered Palpatine his completely subjugated Jedi, his mind wiped clear, a blank slate. Clean, surgical, risk-free.

But that wasn't what Palpatine wanted.

He wanted to break his Jedi, mind and body. He wanted to do this himself—to achieve absolute control over him. Nothing less would do; it had become an obsession. She had never seen him quite like this before—so vindictive, so obsessed, so driven, so…

Afraid.

Mara's eyes widened at the realization; he was afraid. He was terrified of this Jedi.

Was Vader right? Was Skywalker a genuine threat to the Emperor? Were his powers equal to Palpatine's; was that why he couldn't control or predict him? Was this what terrified and fascinated her master? It would be so like him, to be unable to resist the pull of this much power. Unable to bring himself to destroy it, even knowing that it could turn on him.

 _This_ was why he had to control Skywalker so completely. More than that, even. The threat which had been held over his head for so long was now under his control, and it was everything that they had predicted. Everything that he had feared. It wasn't enough for Palpatine to control it; he had to grind it under his heel, tear it apart. Dominate it.

Skywalker made a low noise as he came round, but didn't yet move or open his eyes.

New understanding made Mara blanche as abruptly she felt such pity for him; Palpatine would stop at nothing to conquer his fear, she realized that now. He would break him…and if he couldn't break him, he would rip him to pieces trying.

Did Skywalker know this, too? Did Vader?

Had he been deserted a second time by his father?

 

She watched him struggle to consciousness, rolling over onto his back and drawing his knees up before halting as his breath stilled…then slowly lowering his broken ankle, a worsening injury which they hadn't been allowed to treat. He stared straight ahead as he always did, and she knew it was in an effort to stop the room in its lazy spin; knew that it was getting a little harder every time as his reserves were being ground away.

Remaining still for a long while on the hard floor, he watched his breath mist in the cold—it was always so cold here. Carefully calculated to sap at his reserves, slow him, drag him down.

Again he made the noise, half breath, half-groan, from the back of his throat as he lay still, eyes closed again, wanting to hold the ordeal of reality at bay just a few moments longer.

Mara nudged him gently, knowing that her master would be on his way by now. "Sit up. It'll clear your head."

Slowly he uncurled, the cold floor and his injuries making his movements stiff and awkward as he sat in an awkward hunch, freshly-scarred arms wrapping about long-broken ribs. Mara backed up, avoiding his eyes, aware once again of that strange resonance, and for the first time not rejecting it. "There's water here. Wash your face."

The blood from his latest string of confrontations had dried around his wounds and Mara had assumed that her master would want him cleaned up—or perhaps it was simply because it bothered her; she was no longer sure.

She watched him turn stiffly to look at the jewel-bright, delicately enameled bowl before him, a work of art as everything in the Emperor's Palace was, an incongruous bolt of color in the faceless white of this cold, hard, empty cell. Saw him run bruised, broken fingers along its gilded edge, and knew that he was thinking the same. A slight smile brushed his features momentarily. Then he reached out and cupped his good hand into the water.

Mara suddenly realized that, not having been given drinking water for days now, he was going to take the opportunity given. "Don't drink it!" she pre-empted.

He paused momentarily then cupped his hand again.

"Don't; it has antiseptics in it."

He paused again, seemed to weigh this up, then clearly decided he really didn't care. How did she know all this, Mara wondered? Now that she had finally allowed contact, could she hear him as completely as she could the Emperor?

"I'll get you some water to drink. Just wash with…"

He turned slightly. _When?_

Had he said that, or just thought it? His head was turned down, so she couldn't see his lips. She pulled her comlink from her belt. "Get some water for him." She hesitated, then added, "I'll take responsibility."

She crouched before him to take the immaculate white cloth and hand it to him. This was the closest she had been to him for some time; she'd purposely avoided it. Now, face to face, she couldn't understand why she had so dreaded this.

His expression remained so open, as completely without judgment as it had always had been; he knew this was not of her doing. Still, she looked away from those searching blue eyes, rimmed now with dark bruises, and pushed the cloth into his grip. It looked impossibly pristine in his bruised and bloody hand.

He watched her for a few seconds longer, then passed the cloth to his artificial right hand and dipped it into the water, lifting it to his face. He made contact with an open, angry wound below his eye and pulled away, flinching. Pausing, he glanced momentarily at the dirt and blood which sullied the cloth, before speaking without looking up. "Could I have a mirror?"

This close to him, Mara sensed…she looked away, trying to break contact.

He was strangely, morbidly curious, she knew—not about the injuries, but about himself. With the pointed absence of a mirror even in his apartment, he hadn't seen his reflection in so long he couldn't quite remember what Luke Skywalker looked like. Couldn't remember what he _felt_ like. Had the unnerving feeling that if he looked in a mirror, he would see a stranger.

Again her heart went out to him, so completely alone, _knowing_ that there was no end to this…

"No," she said quickly, guilty at the refusal but knowing that her master would never allow such a humanizing thing when he had worked so hard to objectify Luke; divorce him from his own sense of identity.

Leaning closer, she reached out and took the cloth from him, rinsing it again in the water before reaching out to wipe his face as gently as she could. He winced but didn't pull back. The feel of another human being reaching out to him, touching his face without intimidation or malice, was wonderful to him. She knew that absolutely.

"What am I going to do?" he asked in a low voice, his eyes closed as she worked.

Mara froze at the question. "What?"

"With the mirror—what am I going to do with it?"

She relaxed slightly, relieved, momentarily afraid that he had been asking a much bigger question.

His face didn't change, but she heard the momentary lightness in his voice. "How exactly am I going to make good my escape with a mirror, short of it having a lightsaber welded to it?"

Mara smiled, rinsing the cloth again to continue, the water shot through with red. "Well, it just so happens that the only one I have is just like that."

He smiled just slightly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Thank you."

"For what?"

He didn't answer. He didn't need to; they both knew exactly what he was thanking her for.

Mara turned away, more confused than ever. She wouldn't do this; she wouldn't give him false hope. "It makes no difference. He'll still break you."

"I know." There was utter desolation in those words, spoken so quietly.

Hearing it, Mara almost offered that Palpatine was afraid, but bit it back; no false hope. "Then just give him what he wants. Do as he asks."

He shook his head. "That's not enough."

She knew it was true. Palpatine had to destroy him completely, take him to pieces and rebuild him. Nothing less would suffice.

They remained still in the blanketing silence of the freezing room, the mist of their breath intermingling. She had no idea what to say, but realized that even this didn't matter; he didn't need her to speak—they both knew that any solace offered would be a lie anyway. She needed only to be there—that was comfort enough in this moment. She glanced up at him.

Hunched forward to ease the pain in his ribs, hooded, bruised eyes staring at the floor, blood on his skin, in his clothes, in his hair, he looked like he was already beaten.

Perhaps he was.

Her heart ached; burned in her chest. She couldn't do this—it was just too hard. She wanted to turn and run from the cell, never to come back, never to have to deal with this churning mass of emotions. But she couldn't move. She was anchored to him somehow, hearing his pain and his despair as clearly as she heard the Emperor's confident superiority. But while that connection had always been sharp and invasive, the grate of steel against steel, this felt so comfortable and natural and sincere.

And soon it would be gone; the momentary whisper of a hint of a possibility, ripped violently away from her. It was too cruel. Palpatine would bask in its irony.

Would she know? Would she sense the moment when his soul shattered?

She couldn't do this; she couldn't stay and watch him fall, tumble away into Darkness. But she couldn't help him. She _couldn't_ help him. She couldn't go against her master. The conflict made her eyes well with tears and she blinked them away, angry at herself for being so torn.

"I can't," she managed to whisper, rising quickly, wishing to put some distance between them. She walked hastily to the door without looking back, palming the comm for exit, wishing the guards were quicker. Sensing all the while his quiet, resigned acceptance.

Even now he didn't judge her.

 

 

Luke didn't look up as she left; couldn't bring himself to watch as his last anchor to humanity fled, torn by conflicting emotions and divided loyalties, pushing through the half-open door in her haste to be gone.

Moved by compassion, he didn't have the heart to stop her.

 

 

 

Mara walked briskly down the corridor, eyes blurred with unshed tears; confusion, anxiety, disquiet...connection? Glancing up, she started in surprise to see Palpatine standing at the far end of the corridor, twelve Royal Guard standing to straight attention nearby. The dense black of his heavy robes stood in stark contrast to the featureless white walls.

Absolutely still, in an almost meditative state, he oozed power, dark and brooding.

Did he know? Did he know what had just happened? Had he waited here, using the Force to eavesdrop, to be sure that Mara wouldn't fail him?

That was a cruel test. She strode toward him, emboldened by indignation, taking a breath to speak—

He motioned slightly with his hand, a strangely distracting movement which broke Mara's train of thought, enabling him to speak first. "I have a task for your special talents, Mara. You should leave today. Go and make ready; I will speak with you later."

Then he was gone without looking back, his thoughts clearly on Skywalker. Mara was left alone in the empty corridor, wondering whether the test had truly been for her, or whether she had been a pawn in a larger game—a final twist of the knife in his captive Jedi; one further opportunity to clarify how utterly alone he was here.

A cold shiver ran down her spine, which she blamed on the frigid air of these levels, far below ground. It occurred to her momentarily to wonder whether, if she had been anywhere other than in the Emperor's Palace, she might have let Skywalker go back there; might have closed her eyes, turned away and whispered, ' _Run!'_.

She walked quickly down the corridor, eager to be gone. It made no difference if she stayed any more. Soon, perhaps today, the Jedi would be gone too; if not in body, then certainly in mind and soul. She should let him go—he was, in truth, already lost. He just wouldn't admit it. But her master would change that, as he changed everything else to suit his desires.

How had she ever thought anything could come of this? What had she thought could possibly happen?

Her master was right—compassion was a crippling weakness.

 

 

 

 

Luke sat quietly on the floor as the Emperor entered the gloomy room, his powerful presence in the Force in direct contrast to his wizened frame. As he passed, his heavy black robes caught against Luke's face momentarily, enveloping him in their suffocating blackness, like being submerged in deep water. Lost in a darkness all his own, he didn't react.

Maybe he just didn't care anymore.

He ached so much that it had become impossible to separate out any individual injury. They blurred into one single pain so intense that simply to move induced a spasm which sliced through his whole body, so severe that it blotted out any reaction, freezing him to tense stillness as he waited out the blinding burst.

In a strange way, the beatings no longer hurt—or rather, they hurt like hell, but the pain was already so great that it could no longer be exceeded, save for the actual moment that it was inflicted. And he had learned…learned that pain could be, if not ignored, then in some way tolerated. That he could function to some extent around it. And if not, then it was possible to simply exist, and wait.

Exist—the distant memory surfaced, of his father telling him that sometimes this was the greatest victory of all; simply to exist. At the time he had dismissed it—now…he understood. Understood what a triumph it could be, simply to keep sane for one more day.

His head ached from trying to concentrate, trying to keep track from hour to hour, simply trying to mark the passage of time.

Or was it the drugs, which kept him subdued but offered no rest? He vaguely remembered thinking that long ago; that Palpatine had a drug, that it was self-replicating, working despite Luke bringing the Force to bear on it. Was that right? He didn't care anymore. He didn't care what Palpatine thought of that fact.

Was that important?

He looked at the old man, at the goading, self-congratulating smile on his lips and in his spiteful yellow eyes, and knew that Palpatine was listening to his thoughts. Was that important?

He no longer cared.

He didn't care that he sat hunched on the floor, his back against the wall…how ironic…

It had been important once, he knew. It had seemed so important then that he held out. Now, he couldn't remember why.

Now he just sat slumped on the floor because it didn't matter.

_Then get up. Stand up. Fight back._

There was a mental pause as he pulled together the concentration to think about gathering aching, trembling, starving, battered muscles to stand. But he didn't—what was the point? He would only be knocked down again.

He thought of an eternity like this, in this cell, with only Palpatine's goading manipulations pushing him ever downward, grating away his faltering resolve….

He had expected a quick end; to say no, and be killed. Not this—isolated and disarmed, Palpatine nipping and slicing away at him, barbed and bitter, ruthless and relentless, day after day after day.

Death of a thousand cuts.

The dull hiss of the heavy door releasing interrupted his train of thought as a guard entered the room. Surprised at the presence of the Emperor, the man bowed deeply—and Luke saw what was in his hand.

Glancing away immediately, eyes to the ground, Luke knew it was probably too late—the Sith doubtless already knew. He knew everything else—why should this be any different?

 

 

It crossed Palpatine's mind to wonder why he had been disturbed by the guard—then a split-second burst of emotion from his Jedi, instantly quashed, brushed a thin, cruel smile of realization across his lips, as he saw a new opportunity to test just how much control he could now exercise over the boy's waning resolve.

"Set it down here," Palpatine said easily as he walked to the chair that had been placed for him and settled, watching his Jedi closely, unable to keep the delight of anticipation from his voice.

The boy stared at the floor before him, making a conscious effort not to look up.

The guard crouched to set the glass down on the floor at Palpatine's foot, then lifted the stopper from the metal flask to pour water into it. A pure, clear note sounded as the water hit and swirled around.

The boy glanced momentarily, unable to stop himself, then looked quickly down again as the guard rose and turned, lifting the heavy metal water bowl from the floor nearby, and bowing again before he left.

Palpatine said nothing for a long time, savoring the desperate desire which raged through the boy in sharp contrast to the calm, controlled mask of his expression.

He had thought to underline Mara's abandonment, but this was far better This was an opportunity to see not only what resistance the boy still had left, but also how much he had begun to listen to his new Master. What he would accept without dispute, and what he still had the presence of mind to question.

So he waited, watching, letting the silence hang heavy, giving his Jedi time to realize the game afoot. When he was quite sure that he knew, he began...

"Are you thirsty, Jedi?"

 

 

Left unconscious save in Palpatine's presence, without food or water for many days, Luke knew he was on the edge. Food he could do without, but water he needed desperately in his present state, his cramping muscles and spinning head a constant reminder of just how critical he was.

The Emperor let the silence stretch out as Luke stared resolutely at the floor, when every fiber of his being was focused on the glass of water as he rocked forwards and backwards a few times almost imperceptibly, his jaw clenched shut.

"If you are thirsty, then take the water," Palpatine offered, almost gently.

Luke tried so hard, but was unable to stop his gaze from pulling slowly, reluctantly, back to the water, though he didn't move. Instead he just watched in silence as condensation ran down the outside of the glass to pool at its base, shimmering in the harsh lights. Watched as tiny reflections which darted about the water's rippling surface slowly stilled, magnifying refracted pools of light onto the floor about it. Watched as the last small bubbles of air clinging to the inside of the glass floated dizzily to the surface. He was absolutely, painfully aware of how parched his mouth was, of the cracks in his lips, of his throat so dry that it hurt simply to talk. His whole body was attuned to the water in that glass, crying out for the relief which was right there in front of him.

For several seconds he sat still, dizzy with indecision.

He _had_ to drink; he had to have water. He was shaking from dehydration, his muscles cramped, his head throbbed. He was long past thirst, and a life in the desert had taught him what that meant.

He _needed_ water.

But he hesitated, knowing that there would be a cost, as there was with everything now, waiting to see what the Emperor wanted.

Slowly, deliberately, the glass slid towards him, singing with vibration over the scuffed, white floor.

 

 

Using the Force, Palpatine slid the glass to a halt at a central point between them and waited, relishing the struggle taking place before him.

Three times his Jedi's fingers twitched as he nearly reached out for the glass but stopped himself before finally, hesitantly, knowing he was being played but knowing also that he couldn't do otherwise, he reached forward. Palpatine smiled, gratified. "But understand that if you do, there will be a price."

The boy paused without looking up, a weary, wary expression on his face.

"What price?" His hoarse voice was low and quiet and resigned.

Palpatine offered nothing more, but instead rose and walked slowly round to the back of his Jedi, immeasurably pleased that the boy was not outraged or angry or even surprised that Palpatine had stopped him. Nor did he even think to question the fact that he had stopped, or that there would be a price associated with this most basic human necessity. He wished only to know the cost.

He crouched down behind the boy, and was rewarded by feeling his body tense as he rested his hands to the grazed, open wounds on the boy's shoulders and leaned in close to whisper, "Kneel."

So close to him, in direct physical contact, Palpatine _felt_ the shock of outrage ripple through him, a heady burst of rage and revulsion.

Skywalker made to turn, but Palpatine took his head from behind in both hands, forcing him to turn back to the glass. "Look! Don't lose sight of what you want—what you need to survive. What you _want_ is everything; how you get it is nothing. I ask such a small thing. The only thing which is stopping you is your own arrogant pride. Such a—"

 _"NO!"_ Skywalker twisted free by pulling forward, so weak that he had to catch his weight with the flats of his bruised hands against the floor, wrenching his broken arm back as it made contact, making him yell out.

"Yes," Palpatine sneered, rising to walk away from the hunched man. "This is so much more dignified."

The boy stayed down, his head hung low, one hand to the floor, his injured arm clutched to him, chest heaving.

Palpatine sat again, his black cloak billowing out about him. "Look at yourself. You're no more than an empty shell. A few ragged memories of the man you were. You're _nothing_."

Still the boy did not raise his head, did not deny the words thrown against him. Palpatine leaned forward and bit out the accusation again with absolute malice, " _You're nothing."_

"Then kill me." The voice was very small, barbed by thirst, barely a whisper.

Palpatine laughed maliciously and leaned back again, his composure reinstated. "I told you, I will never do that. No matter what I do to you, I will always rebuild you and do it again...and again. You belong to me."

"Then give me the water."

"You may have it. You have only to kneel."

His Jedi looked again at the water; Palpatine reached out with the Force and made the glass shake just slightly, to clarify that he would simply overturn it if the boy reached for it without his permission, and his Jedi looked down again, to the side, to his battered hands, anywhere but at the glass. And Palpatine knew that he was completely lost. "This fight is over, my friend." He reached out with the Force to brush the boy's mind so benignly. "You know it as well as I do. Let it go; do as I ask."

The boy shook his head slowly but didn't look up. He was so close now, so close to surrender. Palpatine could feel his despair, his desolation, his desperation. It drew him in, intoxicating, like a drug. "Why is this so hard? It's nothing; only you and I are here. Whether you sit or kneel, there is no difference, the only difference is in your mind."

 

 

" _No! No different! Only different in your mind."_ The voice of his old Master saying those same words with such scorn floated into Luke's head. Had they really been spoken to him? It seemed so long ago…another lifetime. He struggled to remember his old Master's name...but it was gone, lost to him now.

As if reading his thoughts, Palpatine pushed on, his voice so benevolent. "The reluctance you feel is the relic from an old life…a life which is irrevocably gone now, and you know it. Are you sure it was ever your own, or were you fighting someone else's battle? Fighting their battles, when they have abandoned you to fight yours, alone."

A breath escaped him, more than a sigh but less than a moan, and Palpatine leaned forward, enraptured, grinning in anticipation as Luke wavered at the very brink.

Was it so terrible to kneel?

_Yes._

Oh but he wanted the water. He _needed_ the water. Palpatine was right, nobody cared. Why was he fighting when nobody cared? It was such a small thing, to kneel. It was nothing, not anymore. He was nothing, so how could it matter? Just kneel and take the water—what does it matter?

_Because if you do this now, you hand control of your life over to him. Forever. If he knows he can beat you once, he'll do it again and again and again. You know that._

He licked dry lips with dry tongue.

But he needed the water. The room was spinning now and he knew it wasn't just the drugs. He'd grown up in the desert; he knew what systematic dehydration was. He _needed_ the water.

And it was right there…right there!

_If you do this, you've given him control. No matter what happens, no matter where you go, you will never truly leave this cell._

You will never leave this cell.

Luke was vaguely aware that he was rocking slightly, so torn by conflicting emotions was he, so desperate to act, to make a choice.

_Choose!_

Take the water. It's right there. _Right there!_

Kneel and drink the water… what does it matter? You'll kneel eventually—you know that now—you _know_ it's the truth.

Kneel, and you'll walk out of this cell tonight.

He glanced up at the Emperor and saw...

Saw the cold black soul behind those cruel yellow eyes. Saw his gratification, his rapture at Luke's struggle, his anticipation of dominion.

Outrage and resentment and frustration crystallized into cold fury. With a suddenness that was startling, Luke reached out through the Force and launched the glass with fierce violence against the wall, shattering it to tiny shards which exploded back in an outburst of water and sharp crystal shards.

The Emperor half-rose, the blind fury of denial in his eyes and Luke was, for once, almost on his feet, incensed, as the lightning shocked toward him.

For the first time, he absorbed the blast: channeled it and pushed it back so that it crackled towards the Emperor, grounding on the lightning still being thrown towards him, tendrils sparking, spears burning back through Palpatine's defenses to sear cloth and skin as both men were pushed apart by the fury of opposing forces, feet sliding over smooth ground.

But his shock at doing this broke Luke's focus, so that when Palpatine drew more power to himself and threw it forward again it hit with brutal intensity, lancing Luke backwards, searing away any thought of resistance.

He was unconscious before he hit the ground, which did nothing to stay Palpatine's wrath.

 

When his Red Guards finally opened the door, the Emperor was still fuming. He turned to the nearest, cold fury in his eyes. "My Jedi wants water. Douse him in it, then drug him."

 

 

Luke was shocked back to consciousness by freezing ater hitting his face and body with a physical force like a blow, in sufficient quantity to push him backwards. He pulled a stunned breath in, too shocked to even cry out. Someone grabbed his arm from behind and a sharp pain pierced the muscle, making him jerk away, curling up in anticipation of another beating.

But as suddenly as it had begun, the assault ended and the guards were gone, the door locking behind them with its familiar double-thud and hermetic hiss.

For several seconds Luke could only breathe, the intensity of the ice-cold water in the frigid cell freezing his mind…but slowly the throbbing pain in his arm began to take precedence and he brought his hand up to his shoulder. With a deep sting that made him jump, he touched metal, and gingerly teased out the needle which had broken in his arm, dropping the tip into the water which pooled about him on the floor, his hand trembling with shock and cold.

Doused head to toe with freezing water, his body temperature dropping rapidly, he was already beginning to shiver uncontrollably. He crawled from the pooled water to the corner of the cell, arms about himself. It was only when he noticed the shards of glass that his numb mind realized Palpatine's sick irony...

He had wanted water.

It occurred to him in that bleak moment to wonder if there was a piece of glass large enough to inflict damage, but the knowledge that Palpatine would not allow his Jedi a self- inflicted escape turned his head away; he would only pay for the defiance.

Another shiver wracked his body and he huddled tighter, the grey mist of the drugs darkening his vision as they began to drag him down. He knew he was too cold, knew that he shouldn't sleep—to do so now, like this, would sap what few resources his body had left. But the darkness closed in, and he was too drained to fight.

The cool white of the cell—walls, floor and ceiling—dragged his drugged mind back to memories of Hoth, of the snow falling in blinding flurries, making his vision darken against it. His breath was beginning to mist in front of him as he shivered.  
 _  
Don't sleep._

His mind began to drift, remembering Hoth, remembering Han giving him Corellian brandy to ward off the cold. He realized his eyes were closed and snapped them open.

_Don't sleep._

He remembered Han saying that to him when he'd found Luke in the snow: 'Don't sleep, Luke. Fight it.'

His teeth were chattering…they were actually chattering! He laughed out loud, the noise turning to vapor as it left his mouth.

Time slowed…his head lolled forward, trembling muscles dropping loose, limbs too heavy to support now. Two perfect circles of scarlet dropped to the floor before him as blood dripped from his face, seeming to appear from nowhere in his fading vision. He gazed, transfixed.

Another shiver wracked through him.

_Don't sleep…_

Don't…

An image unfurled, intensity pushing back at the dim fog of the drugs as it blossomed outwards in absolute silence like a flower opening, smooth and graceful:

  
_…_   
_… … … …_   
_Two marks, perfect circles of deep scarlet…  
Blood on snow. His blood—long ago… Wounds freezing long before they scabbed…  
Frigid white changing to warm red, staining the crisp clean drifts.  
His blood  
His life…everything was fading  
Hazing into the icy blue of snow in darkness.  
Only those ruby red circles remained…  
The snow flurried and turned to sand and dust; a whipwind in the desert, scarlet suns setting over the heat-rippled horizon.  
Tatooine—dense, bone-deep warmth, the sand itself oozing heat in the balmy dusk.  
Twin suns setting, blazing a waning trail through pallid skies, writhing in their own heat haze.  
People, places, memories as warm as the pale sand…  
Were they his at all? So long ago…  
His past, his future, his whole life was fading with the setting suns…  
Falling into Darkness…  
… … … …_   
_…_   


 

 

 

 

After failing to coerce Skywalker to kneel yesterday, Palpatine returned quite literally with a vengeance and brought him to his knees by force, no longer in the mood to play games.

On entering the cell, before his painfully weak Jedi had even begun struggling upright, he threw a lance of bright white power at him, hurling him back and making him cry out in shock.

Two Red Guards dragged him to the center of the cell, hauling him upright then kicking at the backs of his knees to force him to a kneeling position, holding him there with his arms twisted behind his back as Palpatine crouched before him, the boy shouting out in frustrated resentment and bare pain.

Palpatine took his blood-spiked hair and yanked his head up, holding him still against his weak struggle as he looked into those wild, stormy ice-blue eyes, full of indignant outrage.

"You should kneel before your Master."

"You are _not_ my Master!" He yelled, but the words were broken, made hoarse by frailty and his parched throat.

"Then get up," Palpatine goaded, and the boy let out an animal sound part fury, part frustration, and utterly lost.

"Let him go," Palpatine said at last, rising and turning away as his Jedi wrenched free of them, not looking back until they were gone, the door secured behind them.

Skywalker had remained on his knees, collapsing back to sit on his bare heel, his broken ankle twisted awkwardly to the side to protect it, one hand clutched tightly to him, the other to the cold white floor, stained by dark smears of long-dry blood.

For a moment Palpatine thought he had learned his lesson, but the slump in the boy's shoulders and the fact that he used his hand to keep his swaying body upright hinted that he was simply incapable of doing anything more in this moment.

He circled his Jedi, careful to remain out of his reach should he lash out like a wounded animal, aware now that he could do that, that he was balanced this close to the edge…

The revelation had shocked them both yesterday: Skywalker's ability to repel the lightening—to turn it back on its source. But the reminder of his power only drove Palpatine's vindictive, obsessive need to dominate. He knew he was gambling with his very life; this was why he had to control his Jedi so completely. He pushed and goaded him towards the Darkness, knowing that in the moment he succumbed, the boy would hold unequalled power. Power which could so easily be turned on his new Master.

This was always the way with the Dark Side—personal experience had taught Palpatine this, a lesson hard-learned by his own Master. But now, with Skywalker, the risk was tenfold, because his power would be absolute.

As his father should have been but never was; incredible potential dwindled and diminished by a debilitated body.

Not so his child—what power to hold, to direct and channel as Palpatine saw fit. The very thought made him dizzy with anticipation, the wild, enervating fear in his own black heart pushing him on to control completely, mind and soul.

Yes, fear; it was a long time since he had felt fear. But here, before this being who crackled and pulsed with power, he tasted the acid tang in the back of his throat again and it made him feel alive. And the more he feared, the more he felt the driving desire to own that which inspired it.

He could sense the power building like a pressure keg within his Jedi, screaming for release now.

_Just a little further; push him just a little harder._

He crouched again to lift his Jedi's chin, face bloody and bruised, breath shallow and broken. "Where are your reserves, my friend? Where is that iron will, now?"

The boy was silent, numb with exhaustion.

"Have you nothing left to give? Is this the sum of all your convictions? How easily those principles crumble."

Still the boy was silent; didn't even pull away when Palpatine released him to reach out and run pale fingers through his dark, blood-matted hair as his head dropped forward.

He sensed the boy flounder in wretched despair for long seconds before that obstinate, intractable will lifted his sagging head. But Palpatine only smiled at him, yellow teeth against grey skin.

"The end is in sight. Just a little longer," he promised, very sure. Again he raked long fingers through his Jedi's hair, nails to scalp, fingers closing, holding him tight. "Do you sense it? Shall we move forward?"

He leaned in close to whisper against the boy's grazed, bleeding skin. " _Now_ is the true test, my friend…because I have not even begun to break you. I have not even _begun_ to tear you apart. Your worst nightmare that howls in the dead of night is _nothing_. What happens here, in this room, will make it pale; wither by comparison. And there is no waking—there is no respite. I have not shown you a fraction of the power which I will turn on you. What I am willing to do to set you free. Don't give in yet, Jedi—the fight is just begun."

He held against the boy's sagging head. "What do you fear, Jedi? What do you see in the dark when your demons come?"

The boy's chest heaved as he summoned the strength to speak. It took long seconds, but when he did, he was unmoved, raising a scuffed and scarred face as his split lip curled into a snarl.

"Have you finished?" he spat it out, resentment giving him voice, coloring words and thoughts alike.

Palpatine stared in malevolent silence, yellow eyes glowing.

Skywalker's own eyes narrowed, cold as ice, voice broken and weak but invested with a power and conviction which held Palpatine captive. "I know…I _know_ what you'll do. And I know _why_.

"Because I see you too—I _see you_. I know what you see— _your_ demon in the dark. It's hunted you and it's haunted you since you first gained power and it stalks you still. Everything that you've done has been to contain it and control it— _everything_. You've spent a lifetime building walls within walls to protect yourself from it. You've wasted decades raising those defenses to try to make yourself completely impregnable...but there's one tiny spark of doubt in your mind and it _burns_ through your soul, and in the dead of night it howls in the darkness. Because nothing could stop it—nothing. Not even you. I know what you see in the darkness because it _burns_ when you look in my eyes. I know what you see in the dark when your demon comes...

"I know that it's me."

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

 

 

** CHAPTER NINETEEN **

 

 

 

Palpatine walked down the empty corridors of this dedicated level of the Detention Center, designed specifically to hold his Jedi. The twelve Royal Guards who had left the cell with him followed at a discrete distance, their sense in the Force casually brutal, indifferent to the pain they inflicted on Palpatine's command.

He had remained with his Jedi for almost an hour, taunting and provoking, spurring and inciting him until the boy was too weary and too drained and too numb to even try to listen or retaliate any more. Then the guards had entered, as they always did, and beaten from him what little awareness he'd had left.

In a few hours, before the boy had been able to rest, Palpatine would return and begin again, with the guards awaiting their cue. Then perhaps once more tonight—or in the early hours of the morning. Or perhaps he would simply tell the boy that he would return tonight, and leave him hanging…

Skywalker's perceptive accusations, hurled out every day now with such vindictive, bitter malice against that which injured and tormented him, had left Palpatine both gratified and uneasy. As they began to sharpen, the boy's aggrieved, persecuted threats became ever more biting and barbed, aimed with cold precision and hostile animosity. No longer momentary outbursts, but genuine, serious threats.

Again, the Sith Master was aware that he must walk a fine line; he must control his Jedi without stifling this raging wrath, but he could not have it aimed at himself; he must remain forever beyond such notions. So with Vader gone, it had fallen to Palpatine's Royal Guard to become the unknowing brunt of the boy's frustration, and feed all that outrage and passion and fire; to concentrate it on that single source.

Because soon now, it would boil over into fury…

 

 

 

Something was changing.

Within the Palace, all about him—he could sense it. Sitting huddled in the freezing darkness of his cell, deep in the bowels of the huge, hulking Palace, removed from anything which was real or of any substance, he still sensed it.

Everything was becoming surreal; unreal. He wasn't sure when he was unconscious and when he was awake, anymore. The only thing which separated reality from nightmares was that reality was hard to remember—twisted nightmares came to mind far too easily.

The Darkness which had been snapping in silence at his heels for so long, now howled in the dead of night. It warped perceptions and contorted the shadows about him, twisting his thoughts and his dreams. It fired his anger and fed his outrage; fuelled his fear every time he heard the hiss of the cell door opening and the whispering drag of cloth against cold, hard floors as his tormentor returned.

Driven by something stronger than exhaustion and weakness and broken bones, he paced his cell like a captive animal, like a caged wolf in the dead of night—or was that a dream? Because something Dark and hard and terribly powerful stood at his shoulder in fevered nightmares, shrouded in his shadow just beyond awareness. Pushing down, pressing in, suffocating. Closing inexorably about him, waiting for its moment, always waiting…waiting for something to happen.

A pivotal moment—a fracture point.

He would not turn…or had he already?

He knew the power which coursed about him, the power which the Emperor goaded him into calling close. He knew that it was Darkness. And each time, as it came so easily to answer his anger and resentment, it left a shallow imprint on his soul, a mark which no light could burn away, a moment lost to Darkness. So many moments lost… Too many—too many to register. And each time it became harder to push it back. They fused into one as the Darkness blurred into a single, hulking mass in his shadow, calling him on, howling in the oppressive silence of his prison. Amid all his confusion, like the calm eye at the center of the darkest storm, it beckoned. He pushed it away, denied it...but in those bleak, wild moments it felt so _right_ —absolute clarity amid raging chaos.

He'd stood so long against the tempest…was one moment of calm worth his mind? Worth his life? His soul? Because he would give them willingly, without hesitation, if the Darkness offered even one moment of peaceful oblivion.

Was he lost already?

Something was changing.

He was very much afraid that it was him.

 

 

 

 

Absolute bone-deep heat. It wrapped about Luke like a blanket, its comforting familiarity promising release and refuge, its reassuring warmth soothing taut, aching muscles into heavy, weary release.

He was lying on his back in the desert looking up at the stars, the familiar sounds of the homestead murmuring at the edges of his perception. Vaporators humming, coolant pipes grumbling, the perimeter shields hissing quiet static. Someone crossed the courtyard below, clothes rustling, sand whispering as it was brushed aside.

He blinked slowly, completely at peace, staring serenely up to those scattered points of glistening light in the velvet darkness, distant suns heating distant worlds. The sand was still warm against his back, soft and yielding, surrendering the heat of the day. The air, baked dry by twin suns, cooled now in the night's creeping embrace.

A door rasped open, the grinding grate of plasteel against plasteel unfamiliar here, the whisper of heavy cloth against permacrete shivering through him, tearing into the warm memories to rip away the heat of the desert and the comfort of home and leaving only the cold, hard floor at his back, body aching, every breath a knife-stab in battered muscles and broken bones. The weight of reality pressed in about him, pulling tired, gritty eyelids open. He blinked several times, but blood-cast eyes couldn't focus on the dark shadow that crouched over him now, sense intent on his own.

But then, he didn't need sight to know…

"How are you this evening, my friend?" The Emperor's voice grated with empty, mocking compassion as he knelt beside Luke. "You look tired."

Luke didn't bother to answer, blinking slowly then letting his bruise-rimmed eyes fall closed, his awareness drifting in a haze of hunger and thirst and pain and exhaustion.

He felt Palpatine rest the flat of his palm against his chest in warning and tensed in anticipation of a violent shock.

"Answer me when I speak to you," Palpatine said without malice.

"You know the answer," Luke murmured, voice broken by his parched throat.

His tormentor smiled at that. "I wish to hear you say it."

 

 

Palpatine watched the boy's lips tighten in a momentary flare of stubbornness. He faltered at the very edge now, mentally and physically, body a mass of bruised and grazed skin, dozens of cuts left to bleed dry unheeded. His eyes—those wonderful ice-blue eyes—were dull now, shot through with blood, one so badly that no white was visible at all. His ankle had been re-broken at some point, the massive bruise stretching down over the sole of his foot. Not that he could have stood anyway.

He watched without feeling as the boy's eyes fluttered and he began to drift, prompting Palpatine to press the flat of his palm harder against his Jedi's chest, calling the Darkness to him.

The boy's eyes snapped open, muscles tensed against the implied threat.

"How are you this evening?" Palpatine repeated easily.

He tried to remain silent, Palpatine knew, but the investment of twelve long weeks in his rooms in the palace above, had established the precedent that no matter what, they spoke. So even now, in this dire, aggrieved situation, that ingrained practice held sway as his Jedi sighed lightly, all fight gone.

"I'm tired," he said at last, defeated. "Very tired." Unable to stop himself, he glanced to the door.

"Yes, they are there, waiting," Palpatine said, knowing what the boy was thinking, sensing his anxious apprehension in a scarlet spike of fear.

 

 

Luke's stomach twisted, his chest burning in despair as he closed his eyes against the knowledge, for all the good it did him. It wouldn't stop them—nothing did. His mind numbed against that knowledge, unable to deal with the reality of imminent torment.

"Shall I call them now…or shall we talk, my friend?" Palpatine asked.

Luke hesitated, wishing to delay the inevitable, knowing this was a pointless act, but unable to do otherwise.

"Talk," he finally conceded, the whispered word escaping him in a resigned sigh.

"And what shall we discuss today?" Palpatine asked indulgently, hand still resting against Luke's chest.

Luke shook his head slightly against the hard floor, too tired to play these games any more.

"Answer me when I speak to you." There was a biting demand in the words as the voice dropping lower.

"I don't care," Luke whispered.

"Hmm. Perhaps they will come in now," Palpatine reproached. "Yes, that would be for the best."

Luke only curled up and turned away from the door. He was past arguing—it did no good.

He heard again the rustle of cloth against the hard floor, felt the cloak brush against his shoulder, even that a knife-sharp scrape against bruised and broken skin, making him jerk away, lighting a shock of pain in tense, burning muscles.

The door opened with its familiar double-grind of reinforced plasteel and he braced as they came forward in meaningful steps, force-pikes activating, their grating buzz cutting through the air...

They gathered about him…and attacked.

 

 

"Stop," Palpatine said quietly, and the world fell to silence.

Luke let out a gasp—the first noise he had made since the assault had begun—he didn't shout out anymore.

"Leave," the Sith ordered, and they stalked from the room in a silent pack, no trace of guilt, no hint of compassion. Only blind obedience.

The hush lay heavy when the door finally ground closed, Palpatine remaining very still, so that all Luke could hear was his own heart pounding, slow and irregular, his breath ragged in his lungs as he lay still to wait for the blinding pain to subside, even a little.

Eventually that whisper of heavy cloth sounded, making Luke's breath hitch in his throat. But all he could do was remain curled up on the cold blood-stained floor, drifting somewhere between pain and unconsciousness.

Palpatine crouched beside him, taking Luke's shoulder and turning him about so that they were facing, breathtaking spasms of pain wracking his body at this.

"Shall we talk, my friend?" he asked again.

"What do you _want?"_ Luke gasped, desperate and despairing. Whatever it was, in that bleak moment if he could have done it, he would have.

Palpatine's voice was calm and reasonable, completely unmoved by the pain wrought at his command without any true provocation—he no longer bothered to wait for reasons or excuses, they were beyond that now.

"Nothing. I have everything I want," the Sith said, a knowing echo of his words in their very first meeting. "What do you want?"

 _Hope_. The word, the need, came desperately to mind, though he didn't say it out loud.

"I can give it to you…if only you'd stop fighting me," Palpatine said, and Luke knew he'd been listening to his thoughts—had expected no less. Cool fingers gently pushed matted hair back from his eyes, the action as near to genuine compassion as Luke had ever known from the Sith. "You are lost, child…but I believe in you. In what you can be. You will be my greatest apprentice."

Luke didn't bother replying, remaining on his side, eyes half-closed. What was left to say?

 

 

Palpatine settled contentedly beside his Jedi, admiring again that willful mindset, even as he sought to break it. He tilted his head to one side, unmoved by the boy's agony and exhaustion and desolate despair, radiating out into the Force unchecked. "I know what a hard thing I am asking of you."

The boy's gaze came up at that, his right eye cast blood-red, where a blow had come too close, and Palpatine smiled indulgently. "I've told you, I understand you. You are so very much like your father."

His Jedi blinked slowly, beyond bothering to contradict.

"But this fight is long lost, my friend. You know that. It was lost the moment you came here. It was lost the moment you first touched the Force, the moment you left Tatooine, the moment you were born. The moment your father knelt before me, he condemned you too."

The boy let out a low sigh, eyes unfocused, but Palpatine knew he was listening.

"Hemade you everything that you are. Because of him, you will serve me…and you know it." Palpatine paused expectantly, though his Jedi only closed his eyes. "But I understand you. I know why you do this, even if you don't understand yourself."

Pale eyes opened and Palpatine gazed into them, so listless and grey now, dark with bruises. They would burn again, Palpatine knew, as bright and as cold as ever. But his Jedi was afraid now, afraid to touch the Force—afraid of the Darkness which answered when he did.

_So close now…_

"You're fighting because it's what you were born for, child. You're fighting because it's in your blood. You're fighting because you don't know how to stop." Palpatine shook his head gently, his tone indulgent. "But you have nothing left to fight _for_ , my friend—so you're fighting _against_. Because that's all that is left to you."

He took the boy's chin, lifting that numb gaze up to his own. "Let me give you something worth fighting for. Something worth any price...worth any risk."

"What?" How weary and wary that voice.

"Power," the Sith whispered, eyes lighting at the mere word.

"I don't want that power," the boy refused, voice desperately weak.

"You already have it, child. It's already loose. You could no more choose not to use it than you could choose not to breathe."

"I could choose…to stop. To end this now,"

Palpatine only shook his head. "You know I would never let you, my friend. You're worth far too much to me."

With studied care, Palpatine wiped the blood from a deep, oozing split above the boy's eye with his sleeve; he didn't flinch, no longer seemed to notice at all. "You could never let yourself. I told you—you were born to fight, one way or another."

He smiled as he held his pallid, scarlet-stained hand before those lost blue eyes. "It's in your blood."

 

 

Luke didn't move as Palpatine let his hand fall away; didn't speak, all fight gone.

Yes, he felt it. Baying, howling with raw, primal power greater than any storm, calling to be used, wrapping about him like a heavy cloak, empowering and stifling both.

All hope was gone in this forsaken place, his mind and his soul surrendering to the shadows. Deserted and desolate for too long, alone against the onslaught, it had simply become too hard to keep it alight within himself and slowly, gradually, in subtle, guileful increments or tearing, fury-driven outbursts, Palpatine had bled it away, until only the shadows remained.

It was his now, this Darkness which enclosed him. There by his making.

And the Emperor knew it.

 

 

 

 

 

_They were all around her, Leia knew—all around her and closing in. The hunting bay of the pack in the darkness. She never saw them, only heard them, heard their breath as they ran to either side of her, animal grunts in the pitch black of the night, glints of eyes in the shadows._

And then she came to the canyon, as she had time and again, feet slipping, digging up gouges in the soft sand which sprayed over the precipice into the bottomless gulley beyond.

And the pack closed in, panting in the darkness as she turned, her heels to that terrifying drop…

 

Leia's body jerked from sleep so violently that Han scrambled upright, fumbling for the blaster he kept under the pillow as he shouted out. __  
  
"What the…?!"

Leia let out a half-sob beside him.

"Hey, you alright?" Han murmured gently, reaching out to embrace her.

But she was already shrinking from his arms, sliding from the bed and folding her wrap about her against the chill of the ship's night-cycle.

"I'm fine. It was just…" She didn't finish—but then she didn't need to. He knew.

Every night now; every night the nightmares came...

 

 

 

 

 

Days passed in a blur of pain, never a moment's respite. And always the guards, minds blanketed with violence and hostility. Then the Emperor, cursing and cajoling, capricious and volatile, hard and spiteful and cruel.

Then the guards returned.

Then another day, exactly the same as the last.

Then another day.

Then another.

The dreams were sharp and barbed now, like claws scratching at his sanity, like the Emperor's nails dragging across his scalp when he trailed those skeletal, bone-white fingers through matted hair.

 

Bright-white light bled into the sun-bleached memory of Beggar's Canyon on Tatooine, towering above the distant dunes.

A child again, no more than nine or ten, Luke sat at the very edge of the precipice, legs hanging over the sheer drop, heels kicking at the canyon walls, dislodging fine pebbles which fell into distant darkness far below, a fractured fissure of cold, parched, lifeless rock which never saw the light of day.

A shadow fell over him, the baking heat momentarily chilled, and he turned, squinting as the twin suns flared a corona behind the form of a boy of his own age, unfamiliar though his clothes were similar to Luke's own, dusted with desert sand, his mop of brown hair bleached pale by twin suns.

He didn't look at Luke, but instead stared beyond, intent on the dark depths of the chasm, fascinated…

Luke leaned forward to look over the steep precipice, morbid curiosity calling him on. He leaned further, trying to see what held the boy's attention so completely…

The deep canyon fell into eerie darkness, wind whipping the baked sand into dust-devils. He glanced back, but the child was gone and the summer sky had turned to night, familiar stars glinting through velvet black.

Far below he heard a howl, wild and primal, sending a shiver down his spine and dragging his eyes back to the canyon floor where a deep, fast-flowing river had replaced centuries-dry stone, stars reflected and distorted in its inky depths, foam whipping white waves up at its edges, a distant ribbon of black against the sheer rust red of the towering ravine walls.

The wind shrieked in a fury now, buffeting him, driving and dragging him, the sand beneath Luke's hands giving no purchase as he tried to scrabble back.

He toppled from the ridge, tumbling forward in freefall, arms outstretched, crying out, desperate for someone, _anyone_ to hear. He twisted as he fell, the night shrinking away, his world, his whole life, dwindling to a distant, narrow slit between the confining canyon, the roar of the river louder and louder…

It hit like a body-blow, the water freezing, shocking, black as ink, the sky immediately lost to its depths—

_Hold your breath…_

Still he was pulled deeper, whispers of air trailing away from him in pearl bubbles—

_Hold your breath…_

Down, the freezing, pitch water pressing in on him now as he struggled against its pull—

_Hold your breath…_

Down…reality long-gone, legs kicking against nothing, no hope of resurfacing—

_Hold you breath...one second longer..._

His lungs were burning now, no up, no down, no sky, no light, just pitch black—

 _One second longer_ …

His chest heaved, desperate to pull in air, fingers outstretched, searching for something…anything—

_Just one second longer…_

Lungs locked in contention—

_Don't breathe…_

_Don't..._

His eyes closed…dizzy and tired, he stopped struggling, stopped fighting, stopped hoping.

_Breathe—_

With a gasp, he drew in breath...and only the dark water answered, flooding into his lungs to drag him down like a stone…and every last hope fell away with that breath, displaced by the inky, ice-cold water—

He closed his eyes and drowned…

 

 

 

 

Leia dragged herself upright, clawing at the sheets and pulling in huge gasps of air, desperate and blind and terrified.

"Ho! It's alright! It's alright Leia. It's alright…" Han had reached up, arms about her, pulling her back to reality as she gasped for air, his voice shocked and reassuring all at once.

"S'okay," he repeated, over and over. "It's okay, Leia. It's alright… It's alright. No one's gonna hurt you. No one can hurt you. You're safe… You're safe…

"You're safe."

 

 

 

 

He was shaken awake, hoisted half-upright as his eyelids fluttered open, then dropped to the ground. He curled defensively as he fell, knowing it wouldn't be enough, hearing the hissing buzz of the force-pikes.

The first jolt shocked through the small of his back as he fell, making already aching muscles contract violently. The second hit his shoulder, two more on his arm, cramping muscles, the pain driving the air from his lungs in a gasp.

Too many after that. Too many to register individually as they crowded in around him. Just pain, raw and sharp and hard, taking his breath away, piercing his mind.

"Stop." Palpatine's voice, quiet and calm and cold.

 _Stop._ Luke's breath caught in his throat, muscles contracting involuntarily as if they were still being shocked.

Louder than a scream came the whisper of heavy cloth against the smooth white floor. Footsteps paused close to his head; silence reigned.

Then the rustle of cloth as it pooled against the ground beside him.

"Jedi?"

He couldn't speak.

"Jedi?" A hand brushed oh so gently against his cheek and into his hair, making him physically jump.

"Should they continue?"

The word wouldn't come, but his bloody lips mouthed it all the same: _No._

"I think they should." The voice was hard now, disappointed.

 _No, Master,_ he mouthed in silence.

He sensed the smile, the gratification.

"Was that so very hard, my friend?"

Long silence, his heart beating hard against his chest.

"Was that so very hard?"

 _No._ His lips barely moved now.

Another pause. He tried to breathe past the pain, to swallow the blood in his throat before it choked him.

"Should I leave, my friend? Do you wish me gone?"

_Yes_

"Then I will leave you. With them." The heavy raven cloak scratched against Luke's face as its wearer rose.

_No, wait..._

Palpatine walked on without hesitation—

_—Please!—_

The footsteps paused fractionally, then continued—

_—No…Master!—_

They halted; Luke pulled in breath, desperation giving him voice, hoarse and broken...

"No Master. Please…don't leave."

That smile again, searing into his mind. He didn't need to see it, he didn't need to hear it in the Sith's voice. It was burned into his soul.

"I will never truly leave you, my friend. Never again."

His Master turned and walked quietly back, the whisper of that midnight cloak sending shivers up his spine as the Sith crouched low to murmur beguilingly. "Do you wish them to stop? Do you hate them for what they do to you? How you must hate them. How you must fear them. How easily you give them control over you."

 _—How easily you could stop them—_ This last was for him alone. "This is my gift to you, my friend. One that I could not give to you any sooner than this moment. The gift of freedom."

Luke knew that this freedom was also slavery. He no longer cared.

"But I cannot _give_ you this gift, my friend. You must _take_ it. It is all around you, only waiting for you to call it into your control. But _you_ must call it, my friend. You alone."

His Master's voice was barely a whisper as he leaned in close, his finger raking a line through the blood on Luke's cheek.

"Call it to you. You alone can end this."

With a flurry of cloth, his Master stood and walked away, and he knew that nothing would stop him from leaving. And he knew that when he left…

The door ground shut and the lock fell home and the guards around him closed in.

No…not again…no more.

_—No more—_

Anger and fear welled up within him and the Darkness answered it, potent and familiar, tracing through fiery spoor burned into his mind through weeks and months of torment—

And he didn't push it away. He didn't hold back. No accident this, no momentary slip. He opened himself to it, opened his mind and his soul, let it channel through him—

Infallible clarity; the knowledge of absolute, unconditional power. No restrictions, no consequences. Waiting to be used, asking for direction, screaming for release—

The air charged; like the moment before lightning strikes…

The force-pike thrust in toward him—so slowly; so very slowly, as if time itself bowed to the Darkness. Luke twisted and easily caught the blunt tip. It discharged into his hand, but the shock was contained within the Darkness; the pain was still there, but it didn't matter any more. His anger pushed past it, narrowed to absolute focus.

He channeled the Darkness toward the man holding the pike; threw it into him, ripped out in every direction at once. An organic sound like tearing silk, like water exploding—a deluge of scarlet rain.

And the man was gone.

Still the Darkness poured into him, savage and unshackled, and he gave it focus, head snapping up, eyes wild.

He rolled, pulling his feet under him as they scattered, the power coursing into him, unstoppable now. Giving life to ripped muscles, pulling broken bones together. Power to slough off any injury, to burst through exhaustion and pain, to see past sight. He could sense their fear and it only fed his desire for revenge. He didn't look, didn't need to. The Darkness raced at the speed of thought, jumping from man to man, from corpse to corpse. The warm scarlet mist spread and spattered; on his skin, on his clothes, in his hair.

He ripped through them like a tornado, like wildfire, every last shred of control given up to the raging power.

Violent retribution, cold and hard and merciless. The air hazed with it, his lungs filled with it; copper taste as warm ruby rain settled out from the air.

When there was only one left alive, hammering the door for escape, he paused…

And turned slowly. In the bloody mask of his face, his eyes shone cold and blue, ice in twilight.

With absolute calm he wrapped the Darkness about the guard, drawing the man's eyes to his own, holding him transfixed for several seconds, giving him time to realize.

Then his eyes hardened and the Darkness hardened and he closed it in so slowly, pressing on lungs and bone and fragile tissue, holding contact with those terrified eyes until the life within was crushed.

He turned and walked away, the multiple _'cr-ack'_ as he collapsed the Darkness completely in on itself pulling the slightest twitch of a satisfied smile to bloody lips.

He sat very still on the only chair, possessed of the distant calm of a trauma victim as he looked, strangely detached, at the carnage about him, the walls wet with staccato trails of deep scarlet, the metallic tang of raw blood still in the air.

Somewhere deep inside his conscience shrieked in horror as he let out a trembling breath, momentary realization buzzing through him, horrific in its consequences—

But he called the Darkness to him and it soothed like a balm, smothering the scream within...;

Oh, but it had felt so good.

 

 

Palpatine stood in the shadows of the corridor, transfixed with the relish of utter gratification, achievement of this final, long-anticipated goal. Such power; such tormented agony released. It was a transcendental moment, surpassing his every expectation, fluid and wild, savagely poetic, undeniably enthralling.

It had taken his fallen Jedi less than a minute to slaughter them all.

 

 

Luke sat silently in the chair, tired and wired, surrounded by Darkness. Potent.

His Master entered the cell, his sense ecstatic, fiery with conquest, drunk on the raw power which swirled about them, intensity magnified and expanded as it ricocheted and recoiled between them.

_Now. Now he understood why._

His Master walked toward him through the carnage, laughing lightly. Bone-white fingers raked through Luke's hair, leaving caustic trails of Darkness behind them; power drawn to power.

"You were born for this moment, my friend. If you ever doubt, remember this. Remember what you are capable of. Nothing is beyond you now." Strong fingers closed tightly and his head was yanked back. "Nothing except me. Understand that."

It was made as a statement of absolute fact…but the Darkness whispered his fear. Whispered the truth.

Luke held eye contact with his Master for a moment, considering… Then he blinked, dropping his gaze in submission. For now. "I understand."

He felt abruptly, indescribably tired; his body sagged. His pain, so easily willed away, now washed over him in waves. His vision split and blurred as his breath came ragged.

But he waited.

He wanted desperately to rest, to sleep. But he waited…

He would wait as long as was required of him.

_—Rest now, Dark Jedi—_

With absolute relief, absolute calm, Luke fell back into the Darkness, let it smother him completely, gave himself into its cold embrace.

Distantly, he felt his Master's hand on his cheek, sensed his laughter in his mind.

Then that too was gone, and only the Darkness remained.

 

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

 

 

 

 

 

**CHAPTER TWENTY **

 

 

 

Exhausted beyond all conscious denial or acceptance, Luke slipped willingly down into a state of merciful unconsciousness which freed him from cold, harsh reality, and so was unaware as others whispered into the room, hushed footsteps dragging scarlet smears across the blood-spattered floors. In the still silence they gathered about him and with infinite care lifted his inert form to carry him with quiet deliberation from the carnage.

Palpatine paused alone a moment longer, loathed to relinquish the rapture of the moment. First blood was always an enthralling, enrapturing moment—total surrender of rational reason to raw emotion, powerful and empowering. But this, the culmination of so long and desperate a struggle, the fracture point, the pivotal moment when all previous beliefs and convictions fell away, this had been…like art created—sublime. Worth every second of denied fulfillment.

The boy was the realization of everything that his father should have been; raw potential ascended. Without compromise, this time. It was at once terrifying and exhilarating, to bend such power to one's will. To control it and not have it control you—destroy you. Like taming a tornado; elemental, empowering.

Only now was he grounding after the high of his feral Jedi's spectacular fall from grace.

Finally he could move forward and train the boy in the ways of the Sith. Make him everything his father should have been—would have been, had Kenobi not cut him down.

His father…

Palpatine sighed wistfully as he finally walked from the cell, the silent little procession gone now. He walked slowly to the waiting turbolift, lost in consideration. It would be interesting to try to keep them both, father and son. To hold them both, and play them against each other until one of them finally snapped.

But Skywalker's power was too great, eclipsing all other considerations. It would require his full attention to control his Dark Jedi for some time yet, to ensure that he was brought fully to heel. Now was a dangerous time; Skywalker was more than a Jedi, but not yet a Sith, not yet deferring completely to his new Master's will.

It would surely be better to break this final link; not risk emotional complications with one for whom this had always been a flaw.

And yet…it appealed to his twisted sense of possession…

The rule had been laid down centuries past, that there would be only two Sith—Master and apprentice. But Palpatine knew himself beyond such petty restrictions, made to guide those less capable than he. He could achieve more… Had achieved so much already. And now there were no restrictions to hamper him, no Jedi to obstruct his plans, no 'Son of Suns' to hinder him, all prophetic predictions laid to rest by his own hand.

He entered his Jedi's apartments, cold from their long empty spell as he had shaped his Jedi into his Sith. He smiled at that; not quite a Sith yet, but no longer a Jedi; not for some time. Though he liked the designation—ironic now. His final revenge on those who had thought to contain him. He must, after all, call his new apprentice something, and why not this—his Feral Jedi, tamed now. Bound and brought to heel.

He entered the dark room where his Jedi lay in the huge, high bed, the reflected flickering of the firelight casting writhing shadows over his still form. Pale, bloody, bruised skin against perfect white, so still that the white linen seemed draped about him like a shroud, the opulent surroundings of carved wood and rich, dark, heavy fabrics not quite able to displace the disquieting atmosphere, as cold and silent and still as the tomb.

The Emperor's thin lips pulled back; yes, Lord Vader could be ordered to return soon. He had a very important task to provide for his Master, one only he could fulfill. He would enable Palpatine's Feral Jedi to cut this final tie himself, a conclusive test of absolute loyalty, of Palpatine's unconditional control. Proof of his Jedi's mastery over his greatest weakness.

A trial, as their kind had always tested themselves—their abilities, their allegiance, their convictions.

A duel. To the death? Perhaps. If only in intent…

He so wanted to loose this wild thing, this wolf. Wanted to see if he had tamed it enough that it would come to heel when he called.

Wanted to unleash it just to see it fight.

He would need to begin training the boy in the ways of the Sith immediately; equip him with the skills to match his power. Because power alone was not enough; that was Vader's way, to drive forward with incredible brute strength, to get the job done effectively, but with neither finesse nor élan. The blunt instrument. Incredibly powerful and infinitely more experienced than his son. A deadly combination, proving effective time and again.

Skywalker would need a great deal to counter it. But Palpatine had studied him from afar, as soon as he had learned the name of the pilot who had destroyed his Death Star with that single, impossible shot. Studied him without giving the name over to his father. First as a new enemy, then more recently—long before Vader had tried to hide his own gaping weaknesses and subtle treacheries behind his suggestion to turn the child—as a possible apprentice.

So he had observed Skywalker's progress through the ranks of the Rebellion long before he noted the boy's latent Force talents emerging; noted his fast mind, steady under fire, his adaptability when cornered, his focus, always keeping his eye on the end goal.

Attributes which could easily be applied to the art of the duel.

A great duelist fought like a chess master, always keeping his eye on the larger picture, on the move five steps ahead from where he was now, driving his opponent from check to check, maintaining the impetus, always pro-active, compelling his opponent to be re-active, forcing a mistake. Speed in mind and body, refinement of technique. The fine blade.

Vader had commented that their duel on Bespin had revealed the boy to be far more capable than he had expected. Knowing now that Yoda had trained him, Palpatine could well understand why; the wily old Jedi Master had always excelled at training padawans in lightsaber technique. But some things could not be taught. The boy must have some innate skills, in order to have faced down and out-maneuvered a trained Jedi-turned-Sith of Vader's ability, turning what should have been a very short and decisive victory into a near-fiasco. Probably the same focus and composure, the same mental speed and agility which made him an exemplary fighter-pilot.

Since the boy obviously had natural ability and Master Yoda had already unwittingly aided Palpatine immensely in completing his basic training, it was left only to hone that skill. To teach the boy to find his strengths and utilize them, to read another's weaknesses and exploit them. To tutor and train and instill into him the subtleties and uncompromising precision of technique which would build on his basic nature to make him exceptional.

Lord Vader had few flaws in the duel, and he disguised them well, but Palpatine was quietly confident. He did not wish to lose Vader—the idea of owning both Vader and Skywalker still held appeal—but if he must sacrifice one to control the other, then it was Vader he would surrender. His new Empire could be built with Skywalker in a way that it never could with Vader. He would be harder to control than his father, but the gains would outweigh the risks. Yes—brute force and long experience against newly-honed speed and technique. He had time enough to prepare the boy, to lay in place the skills necessary to counter Vader. To hone his fine blade. After that, well then, the boy was on his own.

And in the chess game of absolute dominion, one should be willing to surrender even major pieces in pursuit of one's final goal. His two highest-value players; would he be forced to relinquish one in order to possess the other? Already he smiled in anticipation...

If he were to sacrifice Lord Vader to secure his son's loyalty, then he should at least be entertained by the spectacle. If Skywalker couldn't defeat Vader, Palpatine had lost nothing; he still had Lord Vader…and this moment, this memory of his Jedi's magnificent, explosive, incomparable fall still fresh enough to instigate a burning burst of energized adrenaline.

And even in death, Skywalker could still serve a purpose...

As he had done when his Jedi had first arrived here, Palpatine reached out to rest his hand on the boy's forehead, to feel again that locus of power, intoxicating, potent, addictive.

And there was something else there now, disconnected and distinct, like oil on water.

Darkness imbued his Jedi's contact with the Force. A razor-sharp focus whose intensity magnified and expanded it, bringing a gratified smile to Palpatine's thin lips…which vanished abruptly as another thought occurred, coldly compelling.

He should kill him; kill him now, while he slept.

He was too powerful, too great a risk. He remembered again Skywalker's biting accusations in the cell—that it was _he_ who prowled through Palpatine's darkest nightmare visions, _he_ who had been the threat hanging over the Sith's head for so long, _he_ who was Palpatine's demon in the darkness, the wolf who hunted in the shadows...and he knew it.

He should kill him. Destroy that nightmare vision once and for all.

His thoughts turned momentarily back to his own Master, Plagueis, killed in his sleep by an apprentice too powerful to contain. Palpatine rubbed a sharp nail over his thin lips as the memory turned into a cruel smile. His Master had been careless, to trust his apprentice so readily. To allow him so much free will. Overconfidence had made him blind to the possibility of betrayal. Palpatine would never make that mistake. His fallen Jedi would be closely watched, tightly controlled, any defiance ruthlessly dealt with.

Yes, he would keep the boy, let him live. The past months had been exhilarating, invigorating. The boy's raw power and his obstinate, willful refusal to obey would always make him difficult to control, but the thrill of an apprentice who had the potential to turn on him in a way that Vader never would have was in itself stimulating.

Vader simply didn't have the will to challenge his Master directly; he never had. Palpatine's hold over him, instilled in childhood, had always been too great. He may covet total power, crave it, make subtle, veiled moves against his Master in pursuit of it, but his desire and his audacity were worlds apart. He had never challenged the Emperor directly, had never faced him down, had never drawn blood as his son had, both literally and figuratively.

Yes, he had owned a trained attack dog for too long, Palpatine realized. It was powerful and it was pitiless, but it always came to heel. Now he had a wolf—unbroken, unpredictable and craving to run.

Would it ever walk to heel as its father had?

Again Palpatine wavered, indecisive in the face of this genuine threat… But how could one destroy such compelling power, fascinating in its indomitable defiance?

Wildly volatile though—difficult to contain under pressure. And still in ascendancy, only just finding its way, the path being carefully meted out by Palpatine. Was he teaching his executioner, as Darth Plagueis had?

But it was so incredibly alive—provocative, mesmerizing, potent.

Greater risk for greater gain.

And such gains; he had sensed that earlier, as his Feral Jedi had called the stormy Darkness to him, had first truly _used_ it and not allowed it to use him. The air itself had crackled with power, raw and raging. A new current in the Darkness, feral and unchecked, opening a new portal. Power had come rushing through and Palpatine had bathed in its reflected glory, had felt himself renewed and invigorated by the dynamic inrush, felt his own barren soul nourished and gratified, his own lust for power momentarily satiated by proximity to this distinct new consciousness.

Power which would soon be equal to his own, backed by that driving, singular will.

Power which was a real threat.

Again Palpatine hesitated, indecisive…

But he did not want to destroy that which he had invested so much in creating. He was well aware that his desire to possess may be influencing his decision, but he was prepared to kill him if he had to. The boy was simply too powerful to risk any insubordination.

That, Palpatine had learned from his own Master's very costly mistake. It had, after all, been Palpatine who had taken a steel assassin's blade to the throat of Darth Plagueis. Silent steel rather than a lightsaber, whose distinctive sound would have given its victim a moment's warning. He had identified the most suitable tool for the job, unbound by the ingrained tradition of a lifelong formal education in the Force.

The fact that Skywalker too had been trained only in adulthood rather than from birth had gained him a similarly unexpected advantage in that he did not rely too completely on the Force, instead applying that quick, adaptive mind to think his way around a situation.

Yes, Skywalker too would use stealth, rather than brute force. Would use any and every weapon at his disposal, which gave him an unpredictable edge in any conflict. The Emperor smiled, almost affectionately; in this they were very much alike. He stared down at the boy, who lay absolutely still mind and body, lost in the void between unconsciousness and exhaustion.

"Rest, Dark Jedi. Tomorrow is the start of a new life." Using the Force, he pushed the boy into deeper sleep.

And this time, his Jedi did not fight back.

Taking his hand away only reluctantly, Palpatine's eye was drawn to two dark droplets of blood by the boy's head, perfect circles of scarlet against the snow white linen, drawing him in, hypnotic…

The vision took him, unfurling like a silent explosion, ripping reality aside...

_…_   
_… … …_   
_… … … … … … …_

_He saw the black wolf in the night, the feral creature which had haunted his visions for two long decades, whispering through the darkness, wild and capricious. In a flurry of shadows it was gone, as it always was, and he stared at the empty stillness…  
_  
 _He turned, uncertain, the silence profound._  
 _Knelt before him in mute stillness was his fallen Jedi, eyes turned down in submissive defeat, a dark, heavy cloak of dense black fur draped about him, absorbing all light._  

_The wolf in the night… Pull the leash too tight and he will bite._    
  
 _The Jedi stood, and the confining sable cloak he wore slipping from his shoulders to reveal scarlet slices slashed deep into his arm, dripping dark drops from his fingers as he wordlessly held out his hand._  
 _Palpatine's eyes were drawn inexorably down to the lightsaber in his Jedi's hand, smeared blood red, the color of anger and passion and betrayal…_  
 _Vader's saber—would the boy ultimately turn on his father?_  
 _Why did he give the saber to Palpatine?_

_-Take it- His feral Jedi said, though his lips did not move._

_Palpatine looked again to the lightsaber as perfect scarlet droplets seeped over the inactive hilt, pooling on the floor at Palpatine's feet, soaking a stain into the trailing hem of his cloak...  
_  
 _Liquid life, rich and viscous._  
 _Liquid death, weeping ruby tears.  
_  
 _Death…  
_ _… … … … … … …  
_ _… … …_  
…

The vision collapsed into itself, dragging the air from Palpatine's lungs, and he was standing again in the still silence of the shadowed room, staring at the twin droplets of blood.

He remained motionless for some time, contemplating the vision.

Would the boy kill his father then? Was that an unalterable, immutable event? Why would he hand over Vader's saber? Had Palpatine asked him to do the deed? Was it proof that he had complied?

What had he seen—a possible future, or a warning knell?

Either way, it was no vast surprise—the price of holding great power was a greater risk, a greater effort to control it, greater vigilance. He was comfortable with this; he even looked forward to it. A game of high stakes—the only kind worthy of his attention.

If it was a warning, it would become clear in time. Forewarned was forearmed, and gifted with the enlightenment of this vision, he now had the knowledge to shape its reality.

 

 

 

 

Luke dragged himself back from the void slowly, knowing absolutely that everything had changed. Not just himself— _everything_. Nothing could be the same ever again.

Reality seeped in, demanding attention, but he left it be and lay deathly still, eyes shut, muddy brown light filtering through closed lids.

All around him Darkness swirled, every surface composed of it, every object imbued with it. But this was no longer the wolf howling in the pitch of night—instead it cowered and whimpered, awaiting command. He knew the power it wielded though, the power it had so readily relinquished. Knew what it was capable of…what he was capable of.

Was it this realization which had tilted everything?

No—something else brooded; something preordained pushed inexorably onward like the cogs of a lock falling into place. He listened within, attuned every fiber of his being to this deep stillness… He could sense it, ancient and primal, like the galaxy breathing—like life itself.

All things changed, evolved—this was the nature of life. To be alive was to be in a state of transformation. Mutation. This driving power dragged ever onward and he was powerless against its mass, inertia created at the dawn of time, like trying to stop the galaxy revolving.

Everything was changing. Nothing could escape. Nothing remained untouched. Not even the Force, neither Light nor Darkness.

The Darkness imbued him now. It was a part of him. He was part of it, closely attuned. It buzzed in the air like atoms colliding, potent, persuasive. Incredible, unlimited power searching to ground, desiring to be used, offering without judgment, without device.

It waited, expectant.

He neither summoned nor rejected it, but listened instead to the sound of his own breathing, light and shallow. To the wind which gusted a gale outside, hurling sheets of hail against the thick panes of the windows. Above that, he could hear a fire crackling in the hearth and above that, murmured whispers close by, perhaps in the room, perhaps not.

He remained absolutely still in body and soul, strangely detached in the face of his own downfall, all emotions gone, as if he had suffered so much torment for so long that there was simply nothing left to give—no regret, no shame, neither disappointment nor contrition.

Yes, he had turned on them, but…what had they expected? He couldn't say that they didn't deserve their fate. He'd hated them—hated his own weakness, puerile conscience binding his hands when he knew he could have stopped them at any time. Palpatine had been right—it had been in his blood for so long, held in check. It was inevitable that he would have lashed out eventually; it was just a matter of when—and how.

He couldn't even feel guilt, his actions so far beyond such finite, limited emotions that they simply defied reaction. There was nothing of equal significance that he could possibly feel…so he felt nothing at all.

He recognized distantly that some vital part of himself had shut down, unable to deal with the enormity of his actions. Fallen silent leaving only a glacial emptiness in its place, possessed of a stillness like the pitch of night, the loss too deep to even begin to contemplate. But even this knowledge didn't concern him, viewed as it was from a detached perspective, as if he were standing outside of himself watching some surreal dream unfold, untouched by its events, wrapped about by an empty, resigned acceptance, distant and disconnected.

Should he feel bitter? Angry that all this had been taken, dissected with faultless surgical precision, slice by painful slice, flawless in its execution? It had been a ruthless and pitiless mutilation, every rip and tear slashing deeper, bleeding him dry until all that was left was the empty shell of a distant memory, dry as the desert dust.

Nothing was left. Nothing at all. He couldn't even bring himself to try to remember what he'd lost; to say—to even think—his own name, he realized.

He was at once appallingly empty and absolutely calm.

And in some strange way relieved; it was over now. It was finally over. The fact that he was still alive was…unexpected, unwanted. But it was over—he recognized that.

Was this acceptance...surrender? He had thought it would be bitter and grinding, barbed and biting, his soul ripped from his body. But in truth, he felt nothing at all. Absolutely nothing.

Only tiredness—a profound, bone-deep exhaustion from the bottom of his soul. The dull, cramping ache of a beaten body at the very edge of its endurance—and that strangely welcome now, his only constant, his only way to be sure that he was alive at all.

The still air was warm against his skin, the surface he lay on soft and yielding. It was so long since he had lain on anything but the cold, hard floor that this felt unnatural and uncomfortable. He knew the thought should fill him with outrage, but it didn't. It was just a fact, insignificant in the greater scheme of things.

The warmth lulled him so that he wanted nothing more than to follow its lure into the empty comfort of sleep, but Darkness swirled like the sky before a storm, particles charging, a susurration of energy searching to ground…and he knew what this was, though he had never sensed it as such before.

The whisper of heavy cloth on the hard floor still had the power to send a pang of trepidation through his body, jaw tightening, heart drumming against dark memories.

Light footsteps became silent over deep rugs as they drew nearer and he knew that he was being watched now, though he felt no particular need to open his eyes. He had all the information he needed without resorting to such crude senses. So he remained as he was, allowing the Force to act about him, receiving the information passively without acting upon it or enhancing it further. For a long time as he lay still, the figure remained beside him, studying him, aware that he was awake.

Eventually, reluctantly obeying the knowledge that it was expected of him, he opened his eyes, dry and gritty, so that he had to blink several times against fatigue.

"Dress him." Palpatine's gravelly voice was harsh and hard, cold as the grave—exactly as he remembered.

The Emperor turned and walked from the room, cloak dragging over heavy rugs which padded cold marble.

He lay for several seconds longer, still desperate for sleep, for the vacant void which numbed both mind and body. But it would only delay the inevitable, and bitter experience had taught him how pointless that was, so he rolled painfully onto his side and sat upright on the edge of the high bed, aching muscles mewling their objection as he glanced about the room for the first time, recognizing it now.

His bedroom. In his quarters, in the Imperial Palace. His own personal gulag.

At least before, his prison had been the size of this cavernous room. Now it wrapped itself tightly about his mind, stifling his thoughts, with space for neither absolution nor hope—but then he deserved no better.

It had been richly refurnished with muted, dour fabrics and heavy, ornate furniture, huge paintings on the walls, the colors darkest grays and royal blues. Even this subdued pallet seemed incredibly intense after so long in that blank white cell, color the ultimate luxury.

A huge fire was set in the grate for the first time that he could remember, blacking the stone behind and blasting out heat against his bare skin, baking the air dry and lifeless.

He took all this in through distant, listless eyes. It was unimportant.

Three dark-robed acolytes had remained in the room, looking expectantly at him.

"Leave," he ordered simply, his voice low and broken, his throat too long without water.

They bowed and backed up several steps before turning away, pausing to bow again deferentially before closing the doors silently behind them, despite the Emperor's order.

He'd expected no less, having seen their thoughts so easily; they feared that which they could not comprehend, seeking to appease and curry favor, serving darkness in any form, be it intimidation or oppression, power or persecution. Let the Emperor rail against them; they were of little consequence, below his consideration.

He rose to stand upright and the world swam momentarily before he clutched at the Darkness to steady himself. It answered immediately, an inrush of strength to failing muscles, containing their knife-sharp spasms. The pain didn't leave him, but it no longer mattered.

He limped awkwardly down the ornate mosaic corridor to the dark marble 'fresher and washed, fingers catching over raised scars, noting that his wounds had been sutured, broken bones knitted. Even this didn't touch him, offering neither relief nor reassurance; they could be broken again.

He knew that from experience too.

The clothes in his dressing room were rich and heavy, opulent yet refined, midnight blue and raven black. By the time he had dressed, he'd forgotten what they looked like. There was no mirror here…but then he didn't care to see his own reflection anymore; was uncertain that he would even recognize it.

He walked to the tall carved double-doors at the far side of the bedroom, which swung open without visible aid as he neared them. Through the cavernous withdrawing room without a single glance; through the echoing emptiness of the dark hall beyond, whose tall doors were open to him for the first time now, and out into the main corridor which he had only once before seen.

Without looking about himself, he walked its length to a receiving room close to the entrance, whose tall carved doors were open in anticipation. Glancing briefly to the main entrance and the Palace beyond, he turned away and entered the room whose high, vaulted ceilings flickered as shadows danced in the fluid firelight.

The Emperor stood before a bank of tall, narrow windows, his back to the room, staring out into the implacable fury of the night storm beyond. He stirred and turned just slightly, expectant.

Walking the length of the hall toward the Emperor, Luke Skywalker stepped down onto one knee before his Master, head bent, eyes to the floor.

 

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

.

 

 

** CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE **

 

 

 

Mara Jade returned late into the night, landing on the expansive, polished black landing platform of the Palace roof, close to the SouthTower. It immediately reminded her of him—of the night he'd broken out. A small smile touched her lips at the memory of how easily he'd run riot through all the carefully-laid Palace defenses.

Her smile faded at the memory of what it had cost him. How she had simply walked away… _don't think about that_.

But that was all she seemed to be doing recently; thinking about him. It was easy to dismiss though, her just-completed mission having been so intrinsically linked to Skywalker, the second time she had performed the same exercise this year. That, of course, was why she was thinking of him now—that and no other reason.

Filling her mind with a hundred pointless thoughts rather than acknowledging the single one that was in her mind, Mara entered the Tower, still buzzing with life even at this hour. The Imperial Palace never slept—like the Empire, it existed around the clock, a strange, heightened reality completely isolated from the one which existed outside these impregnable walls. One could live one's whole life here, never once venturing beyond the sprawling, monolithic bulk of the Main Palace, if one so desired. Many lesser civil servants and Palace staff did just that, required by mandate to remain within the Palace grounds as long as they served the Emperor, whole communities and infrastructures building up, level on level, within the Main Palace below.

The Towers themselves provided exclusivity strictly for the elite of the Emperor's staff, granting select accommodation for the privileged few. Workspace, ceremonial halls and assembly chambers, both official and informal, were carefully allotted on a preferential basis to military and planetary leaders, leading diplomats, system representatives and of course, the Royal Houses.

Despite the late hour, Mara knew absolutely that Court would still be in session, and that her master would expect her immediate attendance.

She made her way smoothly through the Tower, pausing at all the usual checkpoints, caught unawares by a few new ones. But then she'd been away nearly four months—almost as long as Lord Vader—so it was no real surprise that security changes were in effect, as her master was never less than vigilant in such things.

It was their type and placing that was of interest to Mara; not the usual, obvious sites—entrances and purpose-built guardrooms—but natural bottlenecks and blind curves, easily defendable points. And plain-clothes guards—Mara's trained eye could spot them easily, milling about with Palace staff, watching rather than checking ID's, and always a second bottleneck around the next corner after a checkpoint, a crossfire between which any intruder would be caught with no cover and could be fired on without danger from either checkpoint. Less military-training and more like guerrilla warfare, Mara reflected.

Definitely a new security officer in the Palace. She narrowed her eyes at that, mentally running through the most recent collection of the Imperial officers clambering for promotion. She could name at least a dozen off-pat, though none would have created this kind of security profile.

 

Lost in thought, considering who her new rival would be—her master always liked to keep his high-ranking staff in opposition one way or another—Mara continued up to the tenth level, where Court would be in effect.

She passed through three new security stops before entering the Attendant's Hall, full of noise and color, her own plain black one-piece drab by comparison. But not without a reference as to her own standing, which ensured her a few curious glances as she made her way through the gathered throngs.

People spent years of their lives whispering promises and secrets in this Hall, making pacts and alliances, without once gaining entry to the coveted Throne Room beyond. Mara too had spent years of her life in countless disguises wandering this room, listening for her master. Automated personal jamming and counter-surveillance devices were rife in this hall of whispers, so that the only reliable way to actually gain information was to walk among those who were all too eager to barter it for the slightest chance of recognition in Court.

She walked quickly through them now, recognizing many, recognized by only a few, and they too shrewd to pass such information on.

At the tall double doors which hung floor to ceiling she paused, nodding at the Royal Guards who kept a constant vigil here, whether the Emperor was 'En Court' or not. She didn't bother to do anything more; her presence would have been noted as she came down the high-security corridors, permission sought as she entered the Attendant's Hall. If her master required her, she would be admitted. If not, then she would wait.

 

The tall doors swung open, many heads turning back to view the new entry to Court, squinting at the light which streamed into the oppressive, darkened room, its rich gold walls glowing, incandescent beneath this burst of light.

Mara set smoothly forward into the gloom, walking towards the raised dais at the head of the cavernous hall on which was placed her master's throne, set upon an inlaid half-circle of pale terassotti marble, its mirror-half set into the floor before the dais to form a completed circle. A remnant of the destroyed Jedi Temple, it had always reminded Mara of a pale moon, a circle of deep cadmium red in its centre. Here her master would be holding Court from his precious Sunburst Throne, another centuries-old artifact appropriated from the decimated Jedi Temple.

The throne—his prized possession and the Jedi's much revered Seat of Prophesy—was a substantial, imposing piece, its backrest beaten and etched from a single piece of gold into the form of a massive beaten sun, whose edges flared out in faceted sunbursts from the ground behind him to well above Palpatine's head. Even here, the richly-worked opulence of the precious metal caught the faintest light to glow sublimely, rendered in exquisite detail at the Emperor's back.

Beneath his feet was the heavy iconic footrest he always used here; his feet never touched the floor but rested instead on a substantial form carved with a complex representation of the galaxy he ruled, the inference hardly subtle.

Mara walked forwards without a sideways glance, her eyes and her attention only for her master. She was five steps from the dais when her stride faltered…

Standing tall and straight just behind and to the side of the throne, expression passive, hooded eyes intent on her, was Skywalker.

He wore a dark, plain suit fastened to the side in military style but with neither rank nor insignia, the fabric and cut flawless, perfectly fitted, lending an air of indifferent affluence, of casual, confident association.

Palace Livery was rich, phthalo blue for the Guard, scarlet for the Royal Guard. Members of the Emperor's personal entourage—and only they—were allowed to wear dark vermillion red, black as Mara often wore, or darkest cobalt blue…and it was this which Skywalker wore now, the relentless block of midnight blue broken only by the narrowest of white lines at his high, straight collar, even his hands covered with fine leather gloves.

He watched her for several seconds longer as she recovered her pace and continued forward, then his pale blue eyes flicked away to stare blankly into the assembled crowd.

When she reached the dais Mara dipped gracefully down onto one knee on the pale cream semi-circle before her master, taking long seconds as she stared down at the ivory marble to regain her composure before looking up, well aware of how amused he was at her uneasy confusion.

She acknowledged that her mission had been a success—all that she knew her master would want aired in public—and took her place, standing to one side of the hall, close to and facing the dais. No one sat in Court save the Emperor. No one approached the dais except by personal invitation and no one ever stood upon it or behind the Emperor save Lord Vader, a few favored, hand-picked guards...and now Skywalker, apparently.

 

She stood for the next two hours staring at Skywalker and wondering…what? Everything, she supposed. Why was he here, what had her master told those around him? How long had he been free from the Detention Center? His scars were faded now, but still easily visible—to her at least.

Did this mean Palpatine had broken his Jedi at last? Of course it must; he would never be allowed in Court otherwise. How much was lost, Mara wondered. For her master to trust him so close… How much of Luke Skywalker actually remained?

An image rushed to her mind of the last time she saw him, months ago, hunched against broken bones, blood dried onto bruised skin… She remembered his battered face as he'd turned to her, lost and alone, already having endured so much and so very aware of what was to come, sky blue eyes so expressive, so completely open, even then…

Tonight he never once acknowledged her fascinated stare, though he must have been aware of it.

Or maybe it was lost in the crowd—Skywalker would have appeared in Court from nowhere, instantly in a position of obvious power and favor, clearly placed on show by the Emperor for all to see. Everyone must be whispering, desperate to know who this new stranger was, what he was, why he was here. Everything—every single aspect of his arrival—would have been closely controlled by her master, she knew. From the choice of day and the Courtiers in attendance to his clothes, his comportment, his position on the dais.

There must have been a feeding frenzy of gossip and guesses traveling through the Palace—nobody appeared from nowhere to gain this kind of instant prominence and favor. She regretted now walking so quickly through the Attendant's Hall; many a tale was whispered there, more often than not instigated by the Emperor, wishing to reinvent the truth to better serve his purpose.

all she could do now was watch and listen as the night wore on, Skywalker stood to straight attention, though he looked gaunt and tired. This close, she could see the fading sutures and scars, so others surely must. What reason had her master given for them, if any? Sometimes ten whispered theories were far more powerful than one lie—or one truth.

Court rolled on; petitions for aid, for relief from exorbitant taxes, for right of proxy over neighboring planets, empty or inhabited, for military contracts, for commercial restrictions lifted or levied, all carefully logged for consideration, permissions and warrants handed out only if the incentives were sufficient and it ultimately served Palpatine's interests.

Skywalker remained statue-still, eyes on the middle-distance, face impassive. If he had the slightest interest in what was happening then he hid it very well. But then he'd always done that, she reflected, and it never once meant anything—that she was learning.

 

Eventually Court retired, the Emperor rising to walk with insincere graciousness through the bowing Courtiers, pausing once to acknowledge someone specific, as he often did.

Skywalker walked closely behind him, hands to his back, eyes straight ahead. As was her right, Mara fell in with the entourage behind Cordo, the Emperor's Majordomo, and Amedda, his Chancellor. The assembly passed through the high doors opening onto the vast Attendant's Hall, its numbers bowing low in hushed reverence as the regal procession passed, Royal Guards falling in behind.

Finally free and in the wide, grand corridor beyond, Mara hoped to catch Skywalker's eye, but the Emperor turned to her immediately as she set forward.

"You've done well, Mara. Go to my offices with Cordo and make out a full report. I will read it tonight."

And that was it. She'd been none-too-subtly dismissed, Palpatine turning away to continue down the corridor to the long staircase which led to the restricted habitation levels, Skywalker not once looking back.

 

 

 

It was well after midnight when she made her way as casually as possible through the privileged habitation levels of the South Tower and to the sprawling Perlemian Apartments which were once Skywalker's prison, now listed as his official quarters.

When she reached them there were four Red Guard—the Emperor's personal regiment—at the main doors. All senior apartments were guarded of course—for the occupants' _safety_ , it was assured, though why exactly it was necessary in the elite enclave of a fortified Palace, no one chose to ask. And if, in keeping others out, the guards also incidentally kept the apartments' inhabitants _in_ , well then that was pure coincidence.

The Red Guard were conspicuous in their presence rather than the more familiar blue-liveried Palace Guards leaving Mara to wonder, as she suspected everyone else did, whether it was a compliment or a containment that kept the Emperor's own regiment at Skywalker's door. The tall double doors themselves were open though, as was customary here, low light pooling in the wide main corridor beyond.

Taking the completely irrelevant card copy of her report from her pocket and tapping her nails across it whilst trying to look officious and annoyed, Mara walked directly up to the door, nodding at the guards there and relying on her position and her familiarity to them, to get her through unchallenged.

No one stopped her as she moved quickly into the entrance hall, hesitating as a regular Palace servant walked casually from a door at the far end of the corridor.

A voice from the staff offices to her immediate left just inside the entrance turned her head.

"May I help you, Commander?" It was a tall, wide-set and dark-haired senior aide Mara recognized as Wez Reece.

Glancing towards him she saw a second aide she didn't know leaning back in his chair to peer out at her. To the far end of the corridor the servant peered back from his walk between rooms, squinting curiously.

Everything seemed oddly settled, as if creating the pretence that it had been in existence here for a long time, though there was a fragility to it, a nervousness.

There were no lights in any of the rooms off the main corridor, but she knew he was in here somewhere; that he was still awake, brooding…

Reece had managed to insert himself between Mara and the apartment beyond by this time, his arm politely out to guide her to the waiting room opposite without ever being so impolitic as to touch her. Senior as he was, he had nowhere near her status within the Emperor's retinue.

"No," Mara replied simply as she took a step to the side, feeling no necessity to explain herself further considering their difference in rank.

Still, it was interesting that he was here at all. He was, she knew, ex-military; Special Ops-turned-bodyguard-turned-Aide, his senior rank in the Emperor's household reflecting his unique mix of skills. And now he was here, clearly assigned to Skywalker. Not your average Personal Aide for not your average Personal Aide position, Mara reflected wryly. She thought momentarily of Mauwel, Lord Vader's Majordomo and also an ex-military man. But the difference was that Mauwel's loyalties lay strictly with Vader, who had found and recruited him, just as Reece's loyalties lay very much with the man who had recruited him—and that wasn't Skywalker.

"Are you here on official business? I have no appointment logged," he said doggedly, subtly matching her sideways move to remain between Mara and the apartment's main corridor.

She frowned, her annoyance beginning to sound in her voice. "No."

She took another step forward and to the side and again Reece matched her, their polite dance having slowly proceeded into the apartment's wide main corridor.

"My apologies, Commander Jade, but the Commander is receiving no informal visitors at this time. I shall, of course, inform him that you—"

This time Mara simply walked into him, and to give him his due, Reece still held firm, undaunted. But Mara had subtly tangled her foot between his ankles, so that her forward pressure sent him stumbling backwards as she feigned a stagger, reaching out for him as if to steady herself and overbalancing him in the process. He made a credible grab at her arm, intending to take her with him, but this was no longer his full-time profession and Mara had been intensively trained and in active service all her adult life.

It was a subtle ballet of hidden combat and good as he was, Mara was past him in seconds, her ingenuous apology quickly muttered as she walked backward down the main corridor and deeper into the apartment, Reece shouting out to her as the second aide set belatedly forward.

She was already halfway down the hallway, intending to turn into the private dining room which had always been the entrance to Skywalker's three-room prison, when something made her turn to her left, to the slightly-open study door whose room beyond was dark, though she _knew_ Skywalker was in there. She paused, suddenly uncertain—should she knock? He surely knew she was outside, even without the commotion…

Finally, seeing Reece gathering himself to his feet, she stepped into the dark room, whispering his name.

"Skywalker? Luke?"

Strangely, considering the disturbance, he stood with his back to the door gazing out onto the distant lights of the endless city, not moving as she took another hesitant step forward into the gloom. The dark, fitted jacket was gone, his spotless, high-collared white shirt seeming to glow in the low light. As he half-turned, a slight metallic glint at his hip caught Mara's eye. She glanced down, the thought occurring and being almost instantly dismissed, but no…at his hip was a lightsaber!

It was dark and matt—brushed perennium, she guessed from the gunmetal color—its smooth, etched surface inset with polished, finely inlaid yellow and white gold banding, the finish already marked from use, though Mara was sure that it would have been new when given to him. Like everything else Palpatine gifted his Jedi, there would be subtle messages even here; a new beginning, a new life.

She wondered how much was lost, for her master to trust him with such a weapon…

And finally, realization slammed into her—of what he was, that he had it. Because there could only be one justification.

Her eyes were still fixed on it when Skywalker finally spoke.

"Yes?" His clipped tone was even, his shadowed expression betraying neither pleasure nor annoyance at her intrusion.

Mara glanced up, suddenly having no idea, none whatsoever, what to say. She wasn't even sure why she was here—only that she had to come.

She took another halting step forward, looking for some kind of recognition, some acknowledgement. In all the time she'd known him, he had always made it easy for her, always open, always amicable, even under the harshest circumstances. Now she looked for something—anything—which was still recognizably him…but he gave nothing away.

Her eyes met his, uncertain. "I…wanted to…make sure you were okay."

He knew the truth… He _must_.

But he remained still and withdrawn, his face completely without emotion, blue eyes dark in the low light, voice detached and even. "I'm fine, thank you, Commander Jade."

 _Commander Jade_. Only once, in the entire time that she had known him, in all of the long hours and slow days they had spent in enforced company, in all the terrible, relentless trials she had watched him endure when he had been dragged to that cell, had he ever called her by title.

When she didn't move, remaining rooted to the spot, searching for some way forward, some way _in_ , he turned away, eyes flicking to the distant city once more, and Mara was left staring at his back, completely lost. "You…seem…"

He didn't turn, didn't acknowledge her stilted words. She wanted him to shout, to accuse—even that would be better than this, devoid of involvement, of any interest at all in her unexpected arrival. If he would denounce her then she could at least defend herself, explain, hold out some hope of forgiveness—of acceptance. She reached out mentally across the silent void, searching for that undeniable, intuitive link. For something—some hidden shadow, some hint of emotion, of empathy— _something_ recognizably Luke.

Impenetrable shields barred her way, wrapped tightly about him like armor.

"I'm fine, thank you," he reiterated evenly without turning, voice and sense blunt with tempered restraint.

"...I…thought…" _What? Realistically—what?_

Now, here, standing before him, aware of what he had become, she was reduced to stammering numbly, no idea any more of what she hoped or felt or intended. Before she could even begin to pull any kind of coherent sentence together Reece practically burst into the room, two guards behind him.

"Sir..." he said, breathless.

"Ah, Reece," Skywalker said evenly without turning, as if this were the normal way to enter a room, "Commander Jade was just leaving. Perhaps you could manage to show her out?"

Bewildered, Mara turned back to Luke and opened her mouth to speak—

"Good night, Commander Jade," he said with impeccable timing, still staring out into the darkness, the finality of his words stinging.

Frustrated, any opportunity to speak further effectively removed by Reece's presence, Mara turned to leave, wondering whether the Aide would dutifully report to the Emperor even this small indiscretion.

Wondering if this conversation defined the extent of her relationship with Skywalker now.

 

 

 

 

He was, as it turned out, a very difficult man to see—impossible to see alone, Palpatine guarding his new prodigy with jealous attention, making sure no one spoke to him and he spoke to no one.

She saw him occasionally in the Emperor's private apartments when she was summoned there, or in Court of course, when he entered with the Emperor's entourage, looking neither left nor right as he walked behind his Master to the dais, waiting at its base to be invited to stand beside the throne, as he always was.

Never wearing his lightsaber there, she'd noticed—though she often saw him wearing it in the Emperor's presence in more private circumstances, and knew that Palpatine supervised his constant and unrelenting training with it in the cavernous Practice Hall, so it wasn't from lack of trust. It was, very clearly, a conscious decision on the part of the Emperor, for which she was sure he'd have his reasons, even if she couldn't fathom them.

Certainly everyone in Court was whispering, everyone trying to place him. Nobody could, of course. Palpatine had seen to that. No one even had a name.

Nor would they—Mara herself had been given the task of removing every reference to him from every census; had spent the last few months touring outlying regions and dustball planets to ensure that every record, no matter how small or how fragmentary, had been destroyed beyond repair, pixel or physical. Finally she'd joined the several already-activated teams to infiltrate Bothawui's closely guarded private Intel system, the only reliable source of genuinely independent information in the Empire, to check that the details fed to them by Black Sun months earlier were in place and that any remaining independent intelligence, aside from a few non-matching references inserted under the name of Luke Skywalker, were gone. There should have been none anyway—she'd been tasked with slicing into or traveling to every independent information source months earlier at her master's command, long before Skywalker's arrival at the Palace. Most information regarding his identity had been removed then, leaving only small threads which never quite added up if traced back.

Now even that was hearsay. And Palpatine's carefully-created gossip was so easy to spread, when whispered into the right ears—so easy to turn into paranoia.

Only the fanatically loyal Royal Guard who had secured him in the cell beneath the Palace, and a few high-ranking individuals, knew the truth—and her master would have been very careful to underline his desire for silence, of that she was sure.

He had become a cipher, an enigma—a shadow.

Just like her.

 

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

 

 

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

 

 

Grey winter light streamed in through the tall panes of the Practice Hall, a vast, wooden-floored space which Mara herself had used for lightsaber drills in the past. It was, of course, permanently off-limits now; had been so for almost four months, Mara had heard whispered, Skywalker occupying it every day from dawn to dusk, alone unless Palpatine was there. Practicing—always practicing.

 

Hour after hour, day after day, week after week. Dedication bordering on obsession.

Mara walked past the six Red Guard who stood to attention outside, not sure if they were there to keep Skywalker in or keep others out. Probably the latter, she decided—there wasn't much that even six Red Guard could do to stop an armed Sith if he decided to leave.

Sith—despite what the Emperor called him in public. But even this fact was becoming familiar now so that, much as she was aware that there was something different about the now-insular Skywalker, some new twist in his tense, wired bearing which hinted at a volatile, explosive edge, she'd come to terms with his new status and standpoint. Maybe even found it intriguing…in a strictly professional, uninvolved way, of course.

She found herself fascinated to see what he would do next, waiting to see when that quicksilver temperament would erupt. But in the two weeks she'd been back, despite his apparent knife-edge disposition, he'd remained coolly detached from everything around him, herself included, so that she had no better idea of him now than the moment she'd been ushered from his quarters that first night.

And she really wanted to know.

So today was a welcome opportunity; Palpatine had ordered her to deliver a message. Yes, she could have done it by comm to his apartments or his Aides, but she now had official justification to speak to Skywalker—and she wasn't going to waste it.

With no idea what to expect she entered the hall, eyes instantly drawn to the far side of the massive hangar-sized room where, surrounded by six specialist dueling droids, Skywalker was dressed in fitted pants and an athletic shirt, both immaculate white.

"Stop program," he said quietly, deactivating his lightsaber as all the droids froze in place at the order.

Mara stepped forward, not surprised at the droids—they were generally banned in the Palace Towers, but no human could offer fast enough reflexes to challenge a Force-adept, so her master kept these here for his own use. Mara too utilized them from time to time—one at a time though, their reaction times slowed to that of a normal human. Lord Vader used them at their maximum capacity, fighting several at once. She'd seen her master do the same, but…

She frowned uneasily, burning with curiosity, frustrated that he had instantly stopped as she'd entered the room.

He turned... Now, at this distance, breathing heavily and with his growing hair in disarray, he looked very much like the man who had first arrived here long months ago, so that without even realizing it, Mara smiled easily at him.

He only frowned slightly in reply, clearly wary of her unexpected presence. Her smile fell away, but the tingle in her ribcage was not so easily removed. "The Emperor commands your presence in the State Room at five," she said simply, still walking forward, her voice echoing about the cavernous hall.

"Fine," he replied tersely, already turning back to the stationary droids.

Mara kept walking forward though, only stopping when she was within a few feet of him.

He didn't turn back and she didn't leave, the status quo remaining for long moments, in which Mara noted the deep, heavy scars on his arms and back, still new enough to show angry red.

Just as she was about to speak he turned, cutting her off. "Was there something else?"

She bit down on the desire to issue a challenge, knowing that was what he wanted—that the curt interruption was intended to push her away—and instead took a less obvious route. "Are they any good?"

His frown pulled the fine scars on his face, only visible as she'd neared him. "What?"

"The droids—are they any good?"

He took a breath in, as if counting to ten, voice level and restrained. "They suffice."

"Only six?"

He glanced back, annoyed, his expression quite unassuming and very Luke. "That's all there are left, right now."

Mara smiled, realizing that he hadn't recognized her sarcasm.

"How about a human opponent?" She unfastened her short fitted jacket, shrugging it off without waiting for an answer.

He looked at her for long moments, and again she had the distinct feeling that he was counting to ten before speaking.

"I'd say no, but clearly that's not an option," he replied dryly as she turned and walked to the armaments store at the side wall. She didn't miss his fast glance up to the lofty ceiling though—to the exact spot where the surveillance lens was hidden.

"Do you know how to use a lightsaber?" His flat voice was neither interested nor indifferent.

"I know a lot of things," Mara said without looking back.

Reaching the store, she noticed that all six practice sabers were still there, and glanced back to look at the saber in Skywalker's hand; it was his own, a live blade.

She took two practice sabers, capable of delivering a fair jolt but nothing more, solid when impacting against another blade, but passing through any other object.

"But I don't play games with live blades," she said, walking back towards him.

"I don't play games," he replied simply, though his tone was not threatening.

She reached him, holding the plain practice hilt out in silence.

"I won't hit you," he assured.

"You might change your mind when I get a few good blows in," Mara teased easily, growing more comfortable in his presence again.

He raised an eyebrow to indicate just how unlikely he thought that was, and Mara allowed herself a subtle smile; he was in for a surprise. She was privately confident, having trained with her master since her early teens, intensively enough to hold her own against a Jedi—he had made sure of that.

Finally, reluctant and clearly operating against his better judgment but too curious to turn this down, Skywalker threw the dark, matte hilt of his own saber to the side without looking. It didn't arc, but launched smoothly away towards the wall, eventually coming to a gentle, controlled rest on the floor near the corner.

He took the practice hilt, following her to the center of the room, where she turned about to face him, lifting her hilt up to ready position and igniting the pure white blade.

He did the same, holding the blade one-handed and to the side, his manner very relaxed and casual.

Mara raised an eyebrow. "And no Force stuff—that includes flips, jumps, accelerated speed, enhancing reflexes and messing with my perceptions."

"Is there anything I _can_ do?"

"You tell me," Mara countered. "On one?"

"You need a countdown?" He stepped in, resting his blade against her own.

She narrowed her eyes; oh, she was going to enjoy the look in his eye when she landed a blow. "Three, two, o—"

That was as far as she got. He twisted her blade up in his own, powering it to one side and making a half-lunge forward which ended with the tip of his saber an inch from her throat, her own blade batted uselessly away to one side.

"You could have let me say 'one,' " she said, mildly embarrassed but determined not to show it.

"You said ' _on_ one'—not after it," he countered evenly, stepping back to ready position. "Again?"

Grinding her jaw, Mara gathered her concentration up and set her stance ready.

"Do you want to count down?" he invited dryly.

"Are you gonna do that move again?"

"No, I'll do something else this time."

"Fine," she said tartly. "Three, two, o—"

She had a slightly tighter hold on her saber to stop him twisting it away this time, pressing her blade to his as the countdown started. None of which helped her as he dropped the tip of his blade, using her increased pressure to allow it to slide partway down hers before pulling it free and up in a horizontal line level with his shoulders as he stepped in. The end result was Mara staring at his lightsaber sideways on and inside her guard, an inch off her chest.

Instead of submitting when she knew he could have easily pushed it home, she back-pedaled wildly, knocking his blade aside.

He was fast—he let her knock his blade back, looped it in a wide arc to gain some power and took three short, rapid steps forward, swinging in low from the same side she'd just struck, knowing that all of Mara's force to that side was already spent. The massive blow simply plowed through her defenses, taking her own blade with it so that although he stopped before he landed the blow to her side, the tip of her own saber caught her leg as it was knocked away, giving her a jolt.

"Son of a…" She walked in a quick circle on the spot, shaking her trembling leg, much to Skywalker's amusement though he was trying not to let it show on his face.

Mara narrowed her eyes as she came back round to face him. "You know, the idea of saber practice is to actually _practice_ —as in more than just one blow."

"The idea of lightsaber practice is to learn the most efficient way to duel. The point of a duel is to remove your opponent as quickly as possible, before they remove you." There was a touch of humor in his voice, though he was trying hard to repress it.

"Fine," Mara growled through pursed lips. "This time…"

"Maybe you should try without counting."

"Maybe I should."

"Just a suggestion."

"I don't _need_ your suggestions."

"Then maybe you should stop talking and start fighting."

"Maybe you should…" She back-pedaled as he came forward in a burst of speed, five quick blows, nothing too taxing she noticed; easing her in this time, giving her a chance. Which was actually worse than simply being beaten.

Finally seeing her first opportunity as his blade passed her own, she swung her saber in a high arc to intercept with his chin—

He jerked easily back and to the side, surprising her by grabbing her wrist and yanking it down to pull her towards him, her saber pushed to the side by the action. She collided with his shoulder, her body stopped dead by his mass—

"Don't take obvious opportunities," he whispered, holding her there. "They're probably feints."

With an indignant yell she wrenched free and brought her saber round in a wide sweep which forced Skywalker to jump back in order to bring his blade round fast enough to counter.

The thrill of having swung a blow swift enough to make him think brought a grin to her face as she stepped back, moving slowly around him.

"You're half a step too close," he said, grinning now, completely caught up in the game.

"Not for m—"

He launched forward, saber held high for a heavy downward blow, but when Mara moved to counter he changed the angle of the swing, swiveling his hilt in the heel of his hand to bring it in almost horizontally at neck height. It took every bit of Mara's skill to move fast enough to counter—and even as she did so, she saw her error.

Unable to do otherwise, she caught his blade at the base of her own, pushing out and down. Skywalker nimbly stepped back, his weight on the same foot as he twisted three-sixty and roundhoused his own blade down to her ankles, the move given momentum by Mara's own defense.

She made a jump back but wasn't nearly fast enough to counter, all her weight too firmly planted against his first attack.

He stopped an inch before her ankle, the blade tip-down, hilt-up. She glanced up as he tilted his head in a _'told you so'_ gesture, rare laugh-lines forming at the corners of his eyes.

Letting out another infuriated yell she drove forward, landing several fast, light blows, sidestepping to find the advantage as Skywalker matched her move for move.

Finally he twisted swiftly to the side of a heavy downward blow, stepping in towards her rather than away and grabbing at the top of her arm to haul her bodily to him again.

"And don't be goaded into letting your emotions rule your actions," he whispered lightly, close enough that his breath rustled her russet hair. "Don't lash out blindly just because you're angry."

"You're Sith—isn't that what you _do?!"_ She instantly regretted it.

His face changed, all humor immediately gone to be replaced once more by that distant calm. The insular, emotionless shield that she saw whenever Palpatine was near.

Releasing her, he stepped back and deactivated the saber.

"Skywalker," she began…

"Congratulations, Mara...you landed a blow." He turned and walked away without looking back.

 

 

 

 

 

Luke stood in the still silence of the empty Throne Room, the cavernous space devoid of its usual chaotic throngs, the hour too early for Court to commence. What had drawn him here he couldn't say, only that it had been just that—a draw; a whisper at the edges of his thoughts that had built steadily in the months since his release from the cell, scratching at the back of his mind with ever-growing need.

He'd crossed the assembly halls of Outer Court without a sideways glance as the crowds subtly parted before him, whispers of curiosity from questing beings with envious minds. He didn't slow, didn't look—they merged to a dirty stain in his awareness, not worth the effort of unraveling.

The crimson-clad guards who barred the way to all simply stepped aside as he neared the lofty double-doors, pikes pulled upright as they stood to straight attention. He walked through unchallenged—not that they could have stopped him anyway. But the fight would have been satisfying; a burst of energy after too long in the stagnant torpor of this cloying place; a crypt to house those whose morals were dead, a monument to self-serving greed.

The doors skimmed closed behind him, the bustle of the power-hungry and the deceitful and the scheming reduced again to a background murmur which fed the shadows and the darkness.

And then there was this—this single tone, this faded whisper. His eyes traced the yawning space. Ashen lines of reedy light traced out from high, thin slits set into the far wall, barely reaching past the end of the dais. He walked the length of the vast hall without a sound, immersed in the silence which infused and enthralled, willing to be led, searching for the source of that singular timbre…

and stopped as his feet touched the outer ring of the stone half-circle set into the floor before the dais.

This stone was old, a complete circle whose one half lay embedded into the throne room floor, its other half embedded into the raised dais with the Emperor's throne resting upon it. Pale buff cream with scrolled indigo blue inlays and a dark russet red centre, it was set apart from the rest of the opulent chamber by its quiet grace, clearly older, reclaimed from a hidden past and re-laid here, presumably at his Master's command. He stared, transfixed, turning to the Force for guidance…

_A flash-image, inverted and insubstantial, of a circular room with lofty views across the Coruscant cityscape; of a ring of chairs, equally spaced, all facing inwards. The stone was a complete circle here, not split and divided, daylight infusing the room and reflecting back off the pale marble..._

The same pale marble… Luke frowned, searching to re-induce the image, but it was gone—and still that tone at the edge of his thoughts, in some way linked to but separate from the inlaid floor.

His eyes were drawn to the faceted magnificence of the Sunburst Throne on the dais before him, reminded in some distant way of Tatooine's twin suns. It had always been connected to Palpatine; had always been the seat from which he had ruled. Luke had seen holos of it in school as a boy; vaguely remembered that it was a priceless artifact, ancient and sacrosanct, shrouded in mystery.

The throne was massive, a single piece of beaten metal of incredible workmanship. A huge circular sun formed the backrest surrounded by flares and sunbursts, the surfaces of which were heavily beaten and etched to reflect even the dull shadows of dying daylight about it in a complex array of tiny refractions across floors and walls.

Before it stood a low footstool, intricately worked from a similar rose-gold precious metal, a deeply-engraved representation of the galaxy rendered in midnight blue enamel and set with precious stones—the galaxy beneath Palpatine's feet, whenever he sat on the throne. Despite its obvious value, it held Luke's attention for only the moment it took to realize that it was not original to the throne; it was an inanimate object, instantly dismissed. The throne… In the heavy, stagnant stillness, the throne resonated a silent tone which echoed all the way down to his soul.

Drawn forward, he walked the steps of the dais and around the throne—at a distance; he felt no desire to go any closer—and saw that the massive etched sun to the front was mirrored in a second beaten panel to the rear, the lowest sunbursts resting on the pale marble floor as feet, the two connected back to back, a perfect match, though the complex etchings on each surface bore only passing resemblance. He'd never once looked at it before; never cared, Palpatine's unyielding aura overwhelming its ghostly presence within the Force.

Slowing, he retreated to the shadows behind the massive throne to stand in rapt fascination, noticing subtle inscriptions carved in fine, broken letters of some archaic language he didn't recognize about the edges of the sun itself, before the metal spread into irregular twists of individual flares. As he stared mesmerized, he fell to an almost trance-like state, watching the last slim rays of shuttered sunlight catch across the carved words, the only sound in the profoundly still silence that of his own heartbeat, loud in his ears...

The voice from the shadows made him jump, twisting him about, every muscle tensing as his hand twitched automatically to the lightsaber at his belt.

"Planning…or simply coveting?" Palpatine stepped forward from the inky shadows, yellow eyes shining—and Luke realized the room was dark; that somehow, it had fallen to night as he'd stood, transfixed.

He forced himself calm; sketched a shallow bow as the emotion drained from his face and his sense behind already-entrenched shields. "Neither, Master. Just studying a piece of history."

The Emperor stepped forward, his heavy black gown absorbing the wan light as if the shadows came with him. One pallid hand reached out to trail possessively across the edge of the throne, broken fingernails scratching audibly in the still silence.

"Studying what, exactly?"

Luke hesitated, glancing back to the carved throne. "Reading the inscriptions."

 

 

Palpatine frowned, eyes tracing the point at which his Jedi's attention had been held. Originally dubbed the Seat of Prophesy by the Jedi, the hallowed artifact long held by them and coveted by the Sith, had been claimed by Palpatine from its centuries-old resting place in the destroyed Jedi Temple on Coruscant, and renamed the Sunburst Throne. The hidden scripture's words, set within the carvings, were a jealously guarded secret in a language so old that it was the last surviving example. Over decades and centuries Jedi scholars had devoted years towards its translation, with many variations and permutations documented and carefully considered…then hidden away, their portentous words for the eyes of the Masters alone.

"A prophesy," Palpatine allowed enigmatically, watching the boy closely. It was said that in the prophesy carved into the massive sunburst was the key to a power capable of changing the course of the galaxy, the means to channel the Force without limits.

His fallen Jedi turned, eyes tracking right to left as he read the words: " _Son of Suns_."

Palpatine's chin lifted a fraction, eyes narrowing as his fingers tightened possessively onto his throne. A cryptic message in an ancient, enigmatic language; there was no way the boy could know...

And yet— "Read it aloud."

Frowning, Skywalker turned back to the throne. "Which one?"

Palpatine's lips twitched a smile. "How many do you see?"

The boy's eyes stayed on the throne, scanning its surface. "Several—or just one. Different pieces of the same puzzle."

"Read it aloud," Palpatine repeated, voice tighter now.

 

Luke glanced to his Master, drawn by the brooding tone of his gravelly voice, before his gaze turned back to the etched hieroglyphs. For a second they seemed alien again; unreadable… But just as it had done earlier, as he stared at the faceted rose-gold carvings, an insular acuity came over him, resonating through the Force—and words swam effortlessly up into his consciousness, stanza appearing unbidden; forming complete. His eyes traced the curve of the scribings as he translated without effort, words transmuted with a clarity and a significance which called to him—

 

      "This is the way of things, the will of the Force;  
      Everything crumbles;  
      Intentions and empires, Councils and kinships.  
      Aspiration to ambition to atrophy.  
      Desire to domination to dust.  
      Only the will of the Force remains.

      Beginnings are bought at the cost of an end,  
      New Hope given life when all else is lost.  
      From darkness comes light; from destruction salvation;  
      Son of suns, the Force given form.

      That which is fallen will rise to dominion,  
      That which is riven will heal the rift.  
      That which is tainted transcends every limit  
      The one who will falter will balance the way..."

Luke paused, insular and pensive as he read the last,

      "It is shadows whose edge define the light  
      At the brink of the dawn and the darkness."

 

_At the brink…_ Palpatine tipped his head, ochre eyes sharp and shrewd. "And where do you stand, my wolf?"

 

Luke turned to his Master, aware of the play of his thoughts. But he was far too familiar with Palpatine's word games now, to give ground. The smallest of smiles touched the corners of his lips as he offered both abstract and literal answer, looking down to his black-booted feet. "I stand right here, Master—behind the throne."

 

 

 

 

 

"Lord Vader, we've received a communiqué from the Palace—the Emperor commands that you attend a private audience with him following your arrival ceremony tomorrow."

It was Admiral Piett, one of the few officers which Vader trusted…so far.

It was a constant, subtle battle between himself and his Master, as Palpatine carefully placed spies in the senior staff of his Star Destroyer, and Vader constantly found reasons to rid himself of them—permanently.

"Thank you, Admiral," Vader boomed, his annoyance sounding out loud and clear.

Piett bowed carefully and made a hasty retreat, leaving Vader to gaze out of the wide viewport of the _Executor's_ bridge, considering his options.

If he was being allowed to return to Imperial Center, then it was because his son was subdued to some extent. But Vader knew that anyway; Palpatine wasn't the only one with a network of spies. There was, it was whispered, a new presence in Court, always close to the Emperor, always silent, always reclusive. Only Palpatine spoke to him, possessive and watchful, with anyone who attempted to approach him pointedly discouraged. And the boy spoke to no one, detached and distant. He never came from his apartments unless it was to answer the Emperor's command, being seen only in the Throne Room or on his way to the Practice Halls, where he went daily, accompanied to and from both places by four Red Guard, though they were more to discourage interested parties than to control the enigmatic stranger, his sources guessed. There was an edge to him though, Vader's spies reported—a hint of something unstable beneath that insular disposition.

Interestingly, his spies had no name—no idea who the stranger was, extensive though their contacts were.

Vader hadn't bothered to tell them that he knew; better to see what they were fed by the Palace rumor-mill. But he knew the truth—and he thought he knew why the Emperor wanted him back. His new Sith would soon need a test—as Palpatine had once tested Anakin. Turned him on Count Dooku, his previous ally, to rid himself of the complications inherent in having two acolytes serving the same Master.

He remembered with faultless, morbid clarity, holding the sabers crossed at Dooku's throat.

Remembered Palpatine's hissing goad to kill him.

Remembered the bewildered betrayal on Dooku's face.

Vader had always believed absolutely that when he died it would be for his own reasons, not to serve his Master's cold ambitions. Had always sworn that he would never give Palpatine the luxury of such an easy escape. That if his Master wanted to rid himself of Vader, then he would have to face him personally.

Yet he was still returning like a trained dog to his Master's side.

Not because he wanted to face Palpatine…but because he had to see his son again. No matter what, he had to see him.

For what, he didn't know—or rather, he chose not to examine too closely.

He had no idea how much Palpatine had twisted the boy's mind, but he knew that at any point in their stormy association, had Vader put a lightsaber into his son's hand, the boy would surely have struck out against him. It would be no stretch at all for Palpatine to push that emotion into action.

In more lucid moments Vader knew that Palpatine would not simply exchange his loyal vassal's life for a new Sith—or rather, he believed such. But he knew his Master well; knew his confidence and his convictions, knew that he would believe himself beyond the restrictions placed on the Sith in centuries past dictating that there could be only two Sith, Master and apprentice. Which was why he had risked taking the boy to Palpatine in the first place. After two decades of servitude, he knew the Emperor well enough to be willing to take this chance; that Palpatine too would be tempted by the boy's potential. That he'd seek to control him, enticed far more by the lure of raw power than he was shackled by ancient rules and archaic warnings.

He didn't like having been forced to gamble on such, but his son's stubborn refusal of an alliance in Cloud City had forced his hand. If Vader could have turned the boy alone then he would have done so, but such was not his forte. It required the kind of subtle contrivances and scheming manipulations which Vader prided himself on not possessing—and which the Emperor held in abundance.

He'd known, of course, that Palpatine would attempt to prize the boy away from him—had expected no less from the wily old man—but he also knew there was a resonance between himself and his son. And Luke surely felt it too, no matter what he said out loud.

That Palpatine had sent Vader away had been unexpected. He had relied on being there throughout his son's conversion in order to maintain that connection. But even if his Master did think to force a fight, then Vader was confident of his own abilities; he had beaten the boy once. He would have no qualms about bringing the same force to bear again. Though perhaps not quite as vehemently. He had not intended to allow the duel at Bespin to escalate to that degree; had not intended to lose control so completely. Nor had he intended to injure the boy again when he was recaptured onboard the smuggler's ship. But then self-restraint and Darkness were hardly synonymous, and the boy seemed to have some innate ability to get under Vader's skin so completely that all intentions were lost beneath a swell of frustrated enmity.

How he did so with such unerring ease was a mystery—perhaps because they were so similar or, more disturbingly, perhaps because for the first time in memory, Vader actually gave a damn about what someone thought…

That consideration whispered at him for long moments as he resolutely ignored it, dismissing it as irrelevant.

As far as Vader was concerned, the answer to his own inability to maintain any self-control in the presence of his son was obvious; Luke should stop antagonizing him. The boy needed discipline. The notion of Vader himself exercising anything more than the most crucial self-restraint in these confrontations was plainly ludicrous—especially now. Because he knew Luke's potential; that much was crystal clear.

He knew what the boy was capable of, when given a little judicious inducement. Very likely, so did Palpatine…but Vader would make it his mission to ensure that when it came down to a choice, Luke's loyalties would reside with his father. To do that he needed free access to his son, and at present any contact was strictly on Palpatine's terms. But that could be enough. Enough to shepherd the boy, to subtly direct and guide him. Ostensibly to his Master's requirements…privately, to his own.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, some small atom of doubt wormed its way through Vader's thoughts—at how ironic it would be if the boy should now turn on him. If the weapon he had sought to use against his Master, was the weapon that his Master used to destroy Vader himself.

That he would be extinguished by that to which he had given life.

That he should still crave forgiveness from the youth who wished to kill him.

But such fleeting qualms were easily ignored in the face of greater motives. Something resonated now, and it was reducing all of Vader's carefully-laid plans to insignificance. Something deep within… Because this was his son. _His son_. His flesh and blood. Instinctive connections, no matter how hard they had both tried to deny them. No matter how the Emperor tried to rip and sever them, no matter what he had whispered and twisted.

All of Vader's previous intentions were falling away before this simple fact and everything— _everything_ —was re-focusing about it. Confusing and frustrating and unwelcome as this was.

Everything was changing; every foundation, every belief, every conviction was being tested by his son's very existence.

He'd wanted to convert the boy for the power he embodied, for the opportunity he represented. Before he had seen his son there had been no question, no shadow of doubt as to his role in Vader's greater plan; either he served Vader's purpose or he was removed.

Now… all that Vader knew for sure was that he could have killed the boy on Bespin and freed himself of a complication. And Luke—Luke could have pulled the trigger and killed his father when Vader had given him the chance onboard the _Millennium Falcon_. Should have done so, knowing the alternative, knowing that Vader could control him.

But neither had the stomach for it.

No matter what else happened, that would remain; Vader believed it absolutely. Because he knew what he felt. Let Palpatine do his worst; let him try any treachery to turn the boy against him or himself against the boy. Vader had the greater hold; a deeper resonance.

It was the most natural, ingrained compulsion in the galaxy, beyond all conscious choice or manipulations. It was involuntary and instinctive, and no matter what he planned and how far he ran it always kept pace, because it was within him; it ran with the blood through his veins. This was his son...

And that he could not deny.

 

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

 

 

** CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE **

 

 

 

The massed ranks of stormtroopers gathered in parade-straight lines on the vast main landing platform of the Imperial Palace, assembled to mark the return of Lord Vader from his extended mission to the Rim Worlds.

Palpatine stood in one of the private halls far above in the South Tower, removed from the ceremony he had ordered, his attention split between that and the near-soundless footsteps which approached now, aware of the tightly twisted ball of Force-presence that accompanied them.

His acolyte walked the length of the long hall in silence, the complex mindset which shaped and drove him an endless fascination to Palpatine—such as he allowed visible, at least: his awareness that the sharp, streaming sunlight was absorbed and dissipated by his relentlessly dark clothes, leaving him feeling little more than a shadow in the light of day. His wary disquiet at being summoned; guarded realization tinged with anticipation which caused him to briefly allow his hand to brush against the lightsaber at his hip, its weight reassuring. Reaching his Master, he dropped easily and lightly onto one knee, back straight.

Palpatine didn't bother to turn, a subtle indication of his awareness, though he gestured with his hand as he spoke. "Rise, my friend."

Luke Skywalker rose and stepped forward beside his Master to watch the preparations below.

"Your father will land within the hour. I have commanded his presence in my Private Audience Chamber. You will also attend."

The boy didn't take his eyes from the preparations below, his voice distant and dispassionate. "Why?"

"Because I order it," Palpatine bit out, gravelly voice clipped in familiar frustration—though he too did not take his eyes from the landing platform.

They remained silent for a time, the boy knowing that Palpatine had more to say and willing to wait until he voiced it...an admirable trait.

Palpatine turned just slightly, his words tight with anticipation. "Will you fight him?"

"Do you wish me to?" Skywalker said instantly.

There was neither fear nor desire in his request, though Palpatine knew what was in his heart.

"You may do as you wish." Palpatine let his permission hang in the air for a long time, though his fallen Jedi did not stir. "But you may not kill him."

This brought the boy's eyes to him, though his face and voice remained guarded and neutral as he spoke, not quite deferential but no longer openly defiant. "You continually accuse me of being less than a Sith, yet when I choose to bite, you muzzle me."

Palpatine finally turned. "You will do as I command."

His feral Jedi remained still, visibly unmoved. Four long months since he had first been freed from the cell, his scars—some faded with the passage of months, others so fresh as to still be darkened by bruises—were a testament to this ongoing battle.

But the war was long since won, Palpatine knew. This was simply a re-drawing of the lines, a testing of limits and boundaries. And in truth he enjoyed it; the game was not over, it had merely moved to a more subtle arena.

He held his Jedi's gaze for long seconds, subduing him by force of will before Skywalker turned away without comment, jaw clenched against the words he so clearly wished to speak.

 _"Do you understand?"_ Palpatine pushed.

"Yes, Master," he finally conceded without looking back, voice tightly bound. "Though I don't understand why."

Palpatine smiled at the smoldering frustration evident in those words. But he didn't relent. "Because I need him."

"To do what?" the boy challenged, an edge to his voice again.

"The one thing that you seem incapable of," Palpatine accused, eyes hard; "Obey my commands without question."

Those wonderful ice-blue eyes seethed with repressed resentment at the provocation, but his Jedi said nothing.

Palpatine lifted his eyebrows. "When you can do that, you may take his head."

Skywalker finally turned away, chagrined. Trying to obey, Palpatine knew, but unable to in spite of himself—which was one of the reasons Palpatine valued him, enjoyed his company. The wolf who ate from his Master's hand, walking to heel now—almost.

Occasionally he still sought to run, metaphorically if not physically—and Palpatine still yanked at the chains which held him. But it didn't stop him trying when the mood was on him.

And it did not stay Palpatine's hand when he did.

 

 

 

 

Vader walked the long corridor of his Master's private residence in the East Tower without pause, knowing the Palace from long experience, though these were not rooms his Master generally summoned him to. That alone was warning enough, but far more so was the absence of guards outside the Hall which led to the Private Audience Chamber known as the Vermilion Hall.

He narrowed his eyes but walked through the tall carved doors into the oppressive deep scarlet of the extensive unlit hall beyond. The evening's final rays of sun caught the ornate gilding of the carved walls within, long slits of light from the tall windows making the red veining in the black marble floors sparkle. Dozens of perfectly spaced high-backed chairs in dark, ruby hide lined the two long walls, reflected in the polished marble, their regimented lines interrupted by the deep steps which separated the hall into three distinct levels, so that one climbed ever higher to reach the presence of the Emperor.

Always manipulations, subtle or transparent, as Palpatine saw fit. Vader had already braced mentally, wondering how his Master would try to play this, open to all possibilities.

But nothing could prepare him for what lay beyond those doors.

 

Standing to one side of the huge, chair-lined hall was a lone figure.

Dressed in midnight blue, he was almost lost in the shadows, his back to the room as he stared out at the distant city beyond, whose dusk sky burned from fiery red to inky black, its fading glow the only light in the darkening gloom. The figure didn't turn when Vader entered, remaining still even when he heard the Dark Lord's heavy footfall falter against the polished marble.

For long seconds, Vader did not recognize his son, did not sense his connection to the Force, so many and so impenetrable were the shields about the boy's mind.

And now—now that he did—it stopped him dead.

The still silence hung heavy in the half-light, expectant… His son turned… and all of Vader's hopes, all his aspirations, all his intentions were lost, shattered like glass against stone by the biting truth which confronted him now.

His son—the idealistic, unwavering, reckless young man who had fought with such passion and resolve above Bespin—his son was gone, ripped away, burned and buried beneath the shadowed tatters of the man who watched him with such cold animosity now, gaunt face marked by multiple barely healed scars.

Exhaustion, physical and mental, rimmed hooded eyes with dark shadows, hinting at fragile weakness despite the fact that he stood tall and straight. Those ever-expressive blue eyes were guarded now, hard and blank, giving nothing away, neither hope nor hate.

But as he turned, as their eyes met, for just a second those shields faltered, and Vader saw what lay beneath. His heart skipped a beat, perfectly regulated breathing breaking pace momentarily in empathy, every instinctive need of a father to protect his son coming unexpectedly to the fore.

Recognizing this, Luke turned abruptly away in unresponsive rejection. All that he wished to convey had been communicated in that broken moment; he neither desired nor needed his father's concern, far too late to be of any aid, if it ever could have been. As far as the boy was concerned, Vader had made his loyalties clear at Bespin—for him to claim any disquiet now was hypocrisy bordering on insult.

Vader remained frozen, wildly conflicting emotions raging at the sight of his son. At his sense in the Force, isolated and withdrawn, raw with desolation, body and soul both bruised and battered, doused in Darkness. Scars that would never heal but keep on cutting ever deeper, tearing into any last vestige of hope.

And Palpatine's hand clear in it all. He knew that; recognized those feelings from his own scorched soul.

But he'd never thought to see it in his son—not like this.

 

Then the moment was broken as the man before him turning away, stepping from the twilight shadows though he remained shrouded in Darkness to Vader's mind. Walking toward the lofty double doors of the Audience Chamber as they opened in silent invitation.

Vader started mechanically forward, climbing the steps so that they reached the doors together, wringing his mind for something—anything—to say. Some motive, some defense, some justification of higher goals.

"Don't. Don't even try," Luke murmured simply, eyes straight ahead, sense brittle with barely controlled animosity.

This was his son, _his son_ who spoke those words with such cool hostility, leaving Vader cold. All that he had returned for was gone…because there was no empathy here, the newly gained perspective his father had forced upon him affording neither the acknowledgment nor tolerance Vader had anticipated.

In that moment, he wondered how he could ever have believed it would. Such things were earned, not enforced.

After years in a solitary, empty void, Vader had discovered a connection; true affinity, a chance to regain so much that had been lost...of himself and of Padmé. He had been given a gift beyond price…and he had driven it away, he realized. Destroyed it, as he had destroyed everything of meaning in his life. He had lost the son he'd sought to gain, by his own hand—by the Emperor's hand, with his willing collaboration. Knowledge of this twisted his stomach, churned his thoughts, lit some distant fuse as he walked automatically forward.

 

Then he was in the Audience Chamber, the room as dark as his Master's soul, as dark as the realization of the sum of his own bleak loss in that moment. His son walked at his side…but had never been further from his reach.

The Emperor sat tensely upright in the heavy, ornate chair placed on a low dais at the far end of the cavernous room, this the only furnishing, making the opulent gilded embellishments to the crimson, relief-carved walls seem gaudy and gauche, out of place. His taut stance was the only indicator which revealed Palpatine's emotions, though it could be either nervousness or excitement.

Vader walked evenly forward, trying to recall a single moment when he had seen even a trace of nerves in the wily old man.

He was infinitely wary of the immense power contained within his Master, especially here, completely enveloped in the Emperor's dark, overbearing presence.

They reached the throne together, father and son, the thrill of fervent anticipation painting the Emperor's pallid features. Vader took a step forward to drop on one knee before his Master as he had a thousand times before—it meant nothing now, an unthinking gesture of reassurance for his paranoid Master.

His shock when he knelt in genuflection, resting his elbow to his knee, face to the ground, was that his son did the same—though he kept his back straight, hand to his knee, only his head dipped.

 _His son knelt._ Vader's mind was numb, stunned to dazed distraction by this simple action, seen a thousand times before as a matter of Court etiquette. But this was different. This was his son.

And Palpatine had control of him.

He had _known_ that this would be the case, but to see it, to have it played out before him, was deeply unsettling in ways he couldn't yet begin to recognize or resolve.

 

 

The Emperor sighed, a deep sense of contentment passing through him, widening his thin, pale lips into a satisfied grin as he relished the moment he had conspired to create since he'd learned of the boy's existence.

Who would have thought that Vader's child had survived? That Vader himself would be so foolish as to give his own son over to Palpatine. That the boy would embody all the power his father had held and lost. A whole galaxy of possibilities knelt at Palpatine's feet now, plans long since crushed unconditionally within reach once more.

He leaned back, taking another deep breath, glorying in the moment; savoring it. Total dominion with no restraints, no threat left which could genuinely check or hinder his goals. It had been a long time coming, thwarted at every turn by the sanctimonious, self-serving Jedi who sought to bring him down by their actions and their ominous prophesies. And now he had destroyed them; more than that—he _owned_ them. Commanded them.

And he had Vader to thank for that. Vader had provided the lure and the key to unlocking his son. For that alone, he should grant his old advocate life…for now.

But survival came at a price; there could be no connection between father and son if he were to keep them both. That link must be irrevocably broken.

There were so many reasons why this fight was destined to take place, that much Palpatine had foreseen. And they would all be twisted to serve his ends tonight, as would Lord Vader. He had always served the Emperor admirably, just as he would now. Whether he wished it or not.

Because it was Vader whom Palpatine needed to goad into this fight, he knew—not his son. His son had wanted this for so long, this test of strength now that they stood as equals. The opportunity to overturn his previous failure at Bespin. His final revenge on the man he held responsible for so much loss and pain. The Jedi would have held him back in this—wanted him to fight, but for their own pious reasons, not his. Clipped that driving desire which gave him strength. But Palpatine had revived and restored it, fed and nurtured it, reinforced and intensified it. It had served the Sith Master so well... But he no longer needed it to control Skywalker. Now was the time to lay it to rest, to give his Jedi what he desired. Reward for his loyalty, confirmation of his abilities—and most importantly, a test of Palpatine's control.

But to do this, he needed Vader to fight, and to do so to the best of his capability. Any less would not push Skywalker to that edge, would not be a true test. He was confident though, that if he could incite that first blow, then Vader's innate temperament would take over, and the boy would naturally respond. He was, after all, his father's son.

And it shot this first meeting of equals through with a dangerous, uncertain edge—the excitement, the unpredictability of setting Skywalker loose against his father, not sure whether his feral Jedi could be brought to heel in the fury of the moment. The exhilaration of loosing the wolf without yet truly controlling it, not knowing if it would obey its Master's command to leave Vader alive.

The prospect made Palpatine's heart beat faster, anticipation lacing his blood with adrenaline and making his hands tremble. He cackled in appreciation, turning his attention to the boy as he gestured slightly with one tremulous hand to the side of the throne.

"Here," he said simply, and Skywalker dutifully answered his Master's casually confident gesture, in standing and stepping forward onto the dais to take his place beside the Emperor, expression impassive as ever, eyes as wonderfully cold.

Palpatine smiled as he turned back to Vader, aware of his disquiet and pleased with the way these first moments had proceeded.

"I wanted you present on this auspicious day, Lord Vader. You should be proud of your achievements—today marks the ascension of a new power in the galaxy. A new Sith."

Palpatine rose, turning his back to Vader to step slowly towards his son, aware of Vader's sense boiling. Delicately, he lifted a trembling hand to the boy's face, almost but not quite touching it as he traced its curve, claw-like nail catching just once against his jaw line, pulling Luke's gaze from his father to his Emperor, the boy's eyes narrowing just slightly.

Palpatine set his head to one side, transfixed by those icy blue eyes. "Though he has no name as yet, my feral Jedi. Perhaps for now that is best... It serves my purpose, as does he."

His back to Vader, Palpatine smiled at his old apprentice's thoughts… So easy to read; Vader had always been so easy to read—and to manipulate. His son was a constant battle, fascinating in his contradictions, that unpredictable, wild edge just waiting to flare…

"Will you fight?" he asked of his Jedi, voice a tremulous whisper.

"Do you wish it?" Even now, the boy wouldn't be led so easily, wouldn't be used as his father always had. Palpatine smiled his amused appreciation. "Will you fight?" he repeated…and the boy turned his eyes slowly to his father.

 

 

As the Emperor stood and stepped close to his son, Vader's eyes had stayed on the boy, so he perceived the shadowed instant of concealed distaste when the Emperor had reached out to touch the boy face, and with it the fact that perhaps he was not yet beyond Vader's reach…then Palpatine had whispered his question with near-euphoric zeal—and Vader's gaze had turned down…

He wore a lightsaber— _his son wore a lightsaber in the Emperor's presence._

Luke had stood side on to him in the darkened Hall and as he walked to the Audience Chamber, so he couldn't have noticed it, but still Vader chided his own lack of focus in allowing his shock at the changes in his son to limit his awareness of the situation.

The Emperor sensed his chagrin, his dawning realization, and smiled at it, though he didn't turn to face his old acolyte. "I fear you allowed your wishes to cloud your perceptions, Lord Vader—always a weakness with you." The old man was ever quick to judge, to reinforce any perceived weakness in those around him, and thus his own superiority. He kept his eyes on Skywalker as he spoke, knowing that his close presence to the boy was unsettling for Vader. "Your son has no such flaw, though he's willfully obstinate, so very tenacious. He fought so very hard for so long. It took so much to break him."

Vader held his silence, willing away the burning burst of self-reproach which pressed down on him at the sight of his son's tightening jaw, the momentary flicker of emotion tamped down behind icy eyes as Palpatine continued, enraptured.

"Didn't you sense it, Lord Vader? The moment when your son fell from grace? It was…" the Sith considered, lost in reliving the moment, "...sublime. First blood is always so inspiring, my friend. Don't you remember?"

He remembered; remembered tears of guilt and denial scalding trails down his face in the desolate, broken stillness of the Jedi Temple, not a single soul left alive within, not a single thought to break the stifling silence, to still the scream within. Remembered the horror of realization driving him to his knees. The comprehension of irrevocable failure which had ebbed to a numb acceptance of the fate which he had locked himself into. He saw his son's muscles tighten just slightly and felt a fresh pang of disquiet as he recognized those same emotional scars, fresh and raw, still searing through his soul.

Vader knew that feeling so well. Desperate scars too deep to comprehend, which could be suppressed only by stripping thought from conscience, guilt from judgment, action from consequence… The Darkness freed one of all painful emotions which would constrain or hinder, but in return it stole everything—every comfort and serenity, every conviction and compassion was surrendered in search of solace, leaving one insulated and isolated, always alone in the empty Darkness.

All of this, his every reluctant step along that path, he could now see reflected in his son's eyes, at once wild with accusation and yet devoid of true emotion, tightly bound by the fear of feeling anything any more, for fear that one single crack in that dark armor could tear this fragile peace apart.

Vader's eyes were drawn back to his Master's, pale against sallow skin, sharp, expectant, watching him, waiting…

Pushing for some reaction…and he realized—remembered what it was. Why he was here. What Palpatine truly wanted of him.

"We will not fight for your amusement," Vader ground out, very sure.

"Mine? You misunderstand, Lord Vader. I am here merely as an observer. The choice to fight is not mine, my friend." The Emperor turned meaningfully back to the boy, knowing that Vader would do the same.

Skywalker didn't move, didn't react at all under his father's gaze, no trace of guilt in those hooded eyes…

Realization was like a physical blow to Vader, driving any last shard of hope from his soul as he stared into those blue eyes so very much like his own... He blanched, and knew the Emperor had sensed it.

Palpatine continued, eyes on Luke now, fully appreciative. "It is time for my fallen Jedi to move forward. To cut the final ties to his old life and carve a place for himself within my Empire. Where he belongs."

Vader kept his eyes on Luke, knowing the Emperor was speaking as much to him as for him. Though his expression remained hard and stormy, without any trace of fear, the boy had yet to engage in any way in what was happening. He remained silent, stance wary, combat-ready, shoulders loose.

But he didn't move forward…

"This is what you want, not him," Vader accused Palpatine, unable to stop his gloved hand shifting slightly to the saber at his hip in response to the boy's body-language.

His son saw it; adjusted his own stance accordingly. The moment escalated, Vader feeling his own carriage tighten, much as he sought to diffuse this.

"We _will not fight_." He put as much power into those words as possible, willing them to be real, seeking control. But the intent bounced off those mental shields, his son unmoved.

_Would he fight?_

The boy knew Vader's strength and skill—knew what he would face. Surely he realized this was a fight he couldn't win? Surely he realized that? Palpatine had effectively driven a wedge between his son and himself and this would be the breaking point—if he allowed it to escalate. But he had no intention of fighting. There was nothing his Master could do which could compel him to do so. Nothing.

But the look in his son's eyes…

Thoughts whirled as Vader sought to comprehend a barred mind, doubt and confusion stealing away logic to give darker emotions free rein.

_Would he fight?_

Vader's hand edged back infinitesimally towards his saber…and the boy did the same, head tilting to one side in warning, a knowing smile twisting his lips.

"Why did you come here today, Lord Vader," Palpatine asked, twisting the facts to serve his requirements, "if not to fight?"

Vader's eyes and attention remained on his son. His fight was here, he knew, not with the Emperor, much as he sought to distract Vader's attention.

_Would he fight?_

"Don't," he growled at the boy, free hand lifting before him in warning. "I will not hold back as I did on Bespin."

"You held back?" the boy asked dryly.

"I did not kill you."

His son smiled—actually smiled at that, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You should have. It was the only chance you were ever going to get."

Threat and counter-threat; the boy wouldn't be intimidated, he should have known that. He was too much like his father. More so now than ever.

Luke took his saber from his belt in a smooth motion, turning side-on to Vader. "Or didn't you realize…that you couldn't simply walk away. You'd have to finish what you started."

The boy edged forward, unlit saber low behind him, pushing for a response.

_He will fight._

.  
Realization hammered into Vader—how much his son wanted this. That the boy would push until he achieved it. That he would take no less. That he was far, far beyond Vader's reach. Beyond his control.

That this was a genuine threat.

Because this was not the same boy he had faced on Bespin. Palpatine had invested long months destroying and reshaping as only he could, using every weapon in his arsenal, every duress, physical and mental, every betrayal without conscience or remorse…creating a Sith.

In his son's eyes Vader saw so much of himself, a shattered mirror of his own lost ideals, memories burning with fresh fire; the spiraling realization of failure, the loathing of one's own actions, the slow erosion of perspective and principles, confidence and composure crumbling. The realization of all this, every step led and fed by Palpatine, as only a Sith Master could.

This was someone possessed by Darkness. Tortured and twisted and honed in the heat of the flame, like a fine blade. Absolute power; no restraints.

For a second, the outrage at recognition of everything which Palpatine would have done to achieve this transformation burned through Vader, boiling his blood in a flare of protective fury to provoke alien emotions long-since buried. But it was tempered by something else. Something smothered this convoluted burst of paternal compassion almost as quickly as it had surfaced, the humanity of which was deeply unsettling. Something which he hadn't felt in a long time.

Fear.

Real fear, as Luke fingered the saber to a better grip, head tilted down though his eyes never left his father, blade-sharp focus summoned about glacial calm. It was a long time since Vader had faced a Jedi in his prime—longer still since he had dueled a Sith.

Palpatine chuckled, aware of the play of Vader's emotions. "You hesitate, my friend. Perhaps the prospect of a fair fight is a little daunting?"

"Are you _sure_ this is what you want?" Vader said to his son. "I will not hold back."

He was aware that the Emperor was backing up slightly, stepping clear of the field of combat.

"Neither will I," his son promised coolly, almost close enough to strike now.

The moment hung, tense anticipation stretching out to infinity…

" _FIGHT!"_ Skywalker yelled, lunging forward in the same instant. Within a single step he'd brought his front foot down heavily to halt the feint—

But Vader had already reacted.

Driven to the edge of tense anticipation he called his lightsaber from his belt on instinct, activating it as he brought it about in a wide slash which would have cut his opponent open from stomach to spine had he come forward.

Remaining just beyond range Luke grinned, head tilting. " _There_ is the father I know."

 

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

 

 

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR **

 

 

Luke's lightsaber ignited low behind him in a flare of crimson, the familiar power making the hilt jump in his hand as the low thrum of the blade reverberated through his arm into his chest. After long hours and hard days and grueling months of relentless training to the Emperor's uncompromising, exacting standards he felt incomplete without it, its obsessive study to the exclusion of all else his only lifeline here, his only escape.

He lunged forward, completely unafraid—either he would win or he would lose, kill or die, but one way or another, he would be freed of his father's shadow tonight…

No matter what the Emperor had ordered.

Lit by the unearthly sulphurous light of the sparking blades, Palpatine cackled his gratified contentment.

 

Vader sidestepped Luke's obvious blow, designed to do nothing more than bring him within tested striking distance. Long experience cut in unbidden as he looked automatically for any weakness in his opponent; studied closely his movements as they circled warily, neither ready to give any advantage yet.

Then he stepped in for four fast blows, one to each side, one high and one low, all designed to be easily intercepted, each with a purpose. He noted from his movements that his son controlled a limp, that his back, shoulders and neck did not move as freely as they should, that he took the brunt of the saber blows with his right arm, the fingers of his other hand already strapped together. All Palpatine's handiwork, no doubt. He could see the fading scars lit by the scarlet glow of the blades, the healing wounds, old and fresh.

So many.

All this pain contained within finely focused Darkness. Still there, but contained. It didn't slow the boy; he simply didn't let it. Didn't listen— _wouldn't_ listen. Stubborn, like his father.

They moved warily, Vader's uneasy reluctance holding him back, his son responding to this, no matter how unwillingly.

Some tiny doubt remained, deeply hidden, Vader realized, and it colored Luke's actions now no matter how well concealed—kept him at arm's length despite that first flush of aggression.

Recognition of Vader's insight drove Luke forward, angry at his own weakness, his own hesitancy. He lashed out a lightning-fast string of blows, a curtain of hard light the speed and precision of which left Vader staggering back, requiring all of his concentration to parry. He gave ground, but Luke didn't come forward, leaving Vader to realize that his own defenses had been tested, nothing in the boy's stance indicating his opinion or intention. The action had brought him subtly around though, so that he stood with the windows at his back, his face and eyes unreadable now, shadowed by the diffuse halo of subdued light from the city beyond.

Each had tested, had measured their opponent. The next blow would be genuine.

 

Luke stepped forward, blade high, but when Vader brought his own blade up to parry, Luke's downward sweep was instantly halted as he rotated his hilt in the palm of his hand to swing in from the side instead, forcing another backstep from Vader in order to meet the unanticipated blow with any force. Already that feint was abandoned, the massive momentum from Vader's powerful defense giving Luke the impetus to push off and swing completely about, his blade whipping down low from the opposite direction, forcing a hasty retreat.

He pressed forward, twisting his blade over Vader's without releasing it, attempting to push it clear. With no effective force to counter, Vader stepped back again, pulling his saber free and to the side. Luke held back, too skilled now to step into the waiting blow as he would have on Bespin. Instead he stepped nimbly to the side, attempting to move around Vader's blade to gain the advantage by taking his own saber with rather than against the momentum, stealing power from any possible attack and forcing Vader back another step, Luke's blade effectively inside his defense.

He attacked with cold precision, incredibly fast, each blow providing momentum for the next, forcing Vader to retreat defensively, knowing the wall was almost at his back with no chance to break the flow, only withstand it—

 

His son's eyes flicked behind Vader for a fraction of a second, but it was an instant, a moment lost, a split-second too far on the backswing—and Vader stepped in, hooking the boy's blade, using strength against speed. The massive, heavy blow took Luke's balance, breaking his attack and slowing his blade just slightly, so that Vader could lock it with his own.

They stared through the glow, each with a better understanding of the duel ahead. His son's scarred face was composed and focused, anger held in check to better serve his intentions, sharp eyes so clearly taking Vader in as a whole, looking for tells in body-language; the tilt of his head, the line of his shoulders, his weight on his feet.

Was this the boy he'd faced on Bespin? If Vader had held any lingering belief that it could be, that he could maintain control of the situation if his son was lost and it finally came to this duel, then the finely honed assault which gave him barely enough time to think between blows shattered that hope and scattered it to the winds.

How had it come to this? Vader disengaged, pulled back, his own intent lost in the turmoil which was eating at his soul.

But wasn't this what he had wanted?

Darkness exacted a price, he knew that. Better than most, he knew that. But he'd still wanted that power for his son. Still cornered him and bound him and forced it upon him, believing—knowing—it would make him unassailable, intending to turn him on the Emperor.

But hadn't he known that this could happen? That all of that power and capacity could be turned just as effectively on himself, once the boy was brought to Darkness; that Palpatine would know that too, and would seek to take control, would manipulate and plot as he always did?

Yes, but he had gambled—gambled that his natural bond with his son would ensure him good will, when in fact it seemed to do the very opposite.

_Because_ of what he had done, Vader realized! Luke had looked to him for that same acknowledgment onboard the _Executor_ when he had asked Vader to free his companions—some confirmation of a deeper connection—and Vader had turned away without compunction, seeing only his own goals.

What right did he have to ask for those same considerations now? This was his own doing, and he was paying the price...

Or was it the Emperor's doing? Wouldn't it be just like him to stir up all that antagonism and direct it against the one person who had the potential to step between Palpatine and his goal... Gain a Sith and remove a complication in the same act.

Luke came forward again, breaking Vader's train of thought and forcing him to focus on simply withstanding the assault. The boy was finding his own focus now, Vader knew, finding his pace. Which was fast. Very fast.

Both physically, with the speed which he moved in attack and defense, and mentally, always looking for an opening, working several blows in advance of where he was now, leading Vader to check, trying to force him to a mistake.

Vader reached out with the Force, widening his awareness; he was steps away from the wall now, and Luke was too fast for Vader to risk allowing himself to be backed against it with no room to maneuver.

The Audience Chamber itself was nowhere near large enough for a saber duel, though Vader knew this was to his advantage. His son was fast, but Vader had brute strength, and in an enclosed space that was difficult to counter. And it was time to bring it into play.

He stood his ground and for the first time mounted a premeditated attack, twice attempting to lock Luke's blade to his own without success. On the second attempt, as he twisted his own blade about Luke's, both was forced down and Vader took the opportunity to step forward, shouldering the boy back and releasing his two-handed grip on his saber to lash out with his fist.

Luke arched back to escape the sideways blow, realized that he was past his center of balance and launched back into a low, tight back flip, one hand coming briefly to the ground as his blade whipped out behind him to cover the move. Vader took a half-step forward but the boy was already somersaulting effortlessly back again into a high arc which took him well clear to land in a low crouch as his saber swept out horizontally, its tip briefly biting into the stone floor.

He stood slowly, body sideways on, blade held one-handed behind him—inviting an attack.

But Vader was far too experienced to step into such a feint of supposed vulnerability. Instead he moved clear of the wall and waited, breathing labored, surprised at the boy's unexpected skill and deftness both in technique and reaction time, each honed to split-second accuracy.

There was no need to ask where that had come from—Palpatine would not have allowed the boy to fight until he knew he was capable, probably choosing this moment with great deliberation. Had the situation not been so uncontrolled, Vader would have allowed himself some measure of pride at his son's burgeoning expertise, even whilst having those razor-sharp skills aimed at himself. But right now that ability required his full attention to hold at bay, committing his son's unexpected talents to memory for future reference.

Both remained still, each waiting for the other to bring the fight to them. Behind his son, Vader could make out the form of the Emperor, seated again on his precious throne, eyes glowing in the low light, enthralled.

Keeping his saber in one hand, Luke stretched his free arm out beside him to shake it, that shoulder clearly already injured long before the duel had begun.

"My weak side," he allowed, smiling, a strangely genuine act.

"I know," Vader said, glancing meaningfully to Palpatine.

"Then use it," Luke invited.

When Vader said nothing, Luke took several fast steps to the side without stepping closer, forcing Vader to turn to keep him in sight.

"Yours is your limited vision," his son said coolly. "Especially at close quarters. The advantage you gain in strength you lose in restricted sight, when you try to bring it to bear."

"Your leg is injured," Vader parried. "An old injury not yet healed. You landed from your high jump into a crouch to soften the impact. You haven't since taken your full weight on your right leg."

"It will hold."

"For how long?"

"Long enough."

Vader began a slow half-circle, forcing the boy to bring his lightsaber before him as he kept their distance constant.

"You're weak and you're injured," Vader said in bass tones. "You've been forced into a fight your body's still too damaged for. You've made your point—step down."

"You're old and you're slow, father. And I haven't made my point."

That brought Vader's ire up. "Step down or I will bring you down."

His son only smiled. "Then stop talking and do s—"

 

Luke broke off as Vader plowed in, saber slashing into an infinity loop to force him back. After two quick backsteps, not wanting to give further ground he countered with the same move traveling in the same direction so that briefly the two scarlet sabers chased each other, creating a blinding barrier of light which neither could cross without allowing the other inside their guard.

But the movement was dangerous, uncontrollable by either party save in ending it, so that it was Luke who finally stopped the it, his other hand darting out to halt his saber forcefully so that Vader's blade finally intercepted, the driving impetus of its speed impacting Luke's blade in a shock of power which reverberated through the hilt and into his shoulders. It was a gamble, to give Vader a free move within his defenses, but Luke took the risk rather than maintain such close quarters, where his father's strength was a huge advantage. Because of this he expected Vader to move in, to try again to turn this into a more physical fight—and he didn't disappoint.

Having brief control of both blades Vader knocked the sabers down as he plowed forwards, shouldering into Luke, brute strength forcing him back. Luke didn't even try to hold his own against it, giving the ground without struggle, refusing to be forced to fight to Vader's strengths.

Vader lashed out with a roundhouse blow, and with his blade still locked low, Luke could only hunch down and take this one, pulling his shoulder up to partially protect himself and staggering back at the ferocity of even the glancing blow as a flare of scarlet which lit his vision.

The backward snap freed his blade though, so that as Vader powered forward to deliver another, hand closing to a fist as he pulled it to head-height, Luke swung his saber round and up in a wide one-handed arc which would have split his opponent from hip to shoulder had he not pulled hastily away.

Instead of backing up and taking a second to recover, Luke took the path he'd just cleared and darted forward, twisting to the side and dropping low beneath Vader's vision to come up close behind him, relying on his father's surprise to give him the edge.

Vader spun, lashing out with a blind horizontal sweep as he twisted round toward Luke then, as their blades met, abruptly spinning back the other way, his saber still held horizontally before him.

It was an unexpected maneuver, the first his father had sprung on him, forcing Luke to drop to a low crouch so that the blade buzzed past his head with inches to spare, his own saber in the wrong hand to parry. Vader immediately stopped his spin, using all the power in his arm to bring his saber back again, low enough to take Luke's head off.

Too close to maneuver, Luke could only bring his own blade up with no real power and allow Vader's to slide along its length towards his unprotected hand, using what little power he had to guide it just over his head, close enough that he felt the heat of its coruscating energy; heard it sizzle as it scorched the tips of his hair.

Ignoring the hiss of the blade and reaching out with the Force in that same instant he jerked Vader's legs forward, tumbling him backward as Luke reeled up and away.

 

Vader stumbled to catch himself before he fell, taken completely off guard and still backstepping as his son came forward, kicking nimbly off without hesitation despite his near-miss.

With all Vader's weight and momentum still moving backwards, he was dangerously split between defense and balance—and the boy knew it. He pressed in, the blows short and swift, never two to the same place, a series of fast blows designed to keep Vader off-balance, pushing for the error. His momentum too great to halt, Vader stumbled down—

Luke lunged forward, saber before him as Vader twisted desperately to the side, his lightsaber digging a hissing gouge from the marble floor, too low to bring into play even in a hasty defense. The incoming blade brushed against Vader's leather-clad arm cutting a long slit through his heavy cloak as he rolled free, kicking out against his opponent's feet. The hurried kick caught Luke's right ankle, forcing him to stagger backwards as his weakened leg crumpled beneath him momentarily.

Vader was already lurching up again, saber before him to tap lightly at Luke's own as each regained their composure. Luke knocked Vader's lightsaber away angrily but without any real force as each circled, freshly wary, realization of the other's abilities clarified.

Over the hissing thrum of the blades, Palpatine clapped appreciatively, voicing delighted encouragement to the combatants, as if this were simply a game, a harmless distraction for his amusement.

Realization brought Vader a burst of clarity—that he was doing the very thing that he'd come here to deny. This fight could only serve Palpatine's ends; he was giving Luke what he wanted, carefully managed to better isolate and therefore control him, underlining the limits of the stormy relationship between Vader and his son.

" _He_ wants this—" Vader said, his voice low to disguise his words. "He _needs_ this—to break us apart. Together we're a threat and he knows it."

" _Together!?"_ the boy hissed, tone deriding.

"He's using you—he will always use you."

"And you're so very different," Luke accused knowingly, his words a knife-twist in Vader's dim conscience.

The emotion when he spoke, the betrayal, the anger, was deeply disquieting…and distantly familiar. For Vader, seeing his son like this, the blind accusation in his face a mirror of Anakin Skywalker's on Mustafar, as wild and lost as he had ever been, everything— _everything_ —was twisting away from him.

Luke's blade swept in again, sharp as his accusations, fast as thought, forcing Vader into defense as he realized more and more the deadly skill of his opponent. Frustration welled up at his inability to control this—to control Luke—and resentment followed it, burning away that burst of conscience in a flare of fury and firing a new purpose which pushed all other considerations aside.

The boy was committed to this duel, that much was clear—which meant that Vader must be the same.

He must bring his opponent down, as he had before. But decisively; this was no longer the same awkward, unpolished youth that he'd fought over Bespin. He needed to use enough force to stop him despite his determination... Injury was unavoidable now.

In that moment of Dark clarity, the battle between father and son became a duel between Sith.

And it could only escalate. They were past the point of no return—both combatants could not walk from this battle.

Finally accepting that this was no manageable threat, no controllable situation, Vader stepped into Luke's next assault of a very different mindset, slashing a fierce and formidable slice with vicious intent for his opponent's midsection. With hair's-breadth timing Luke intercepted the attack, but the backstep put his weight on his injured leg forcing two quick steps to that side, the power robbed from his swift parry.

Vader used his opponent's unwilling sidesteps to swing out again into Luke's path, pushing home the attack to force a slight retreat from his son, genuine anger sparking in Luke's eyes.

 

Palpatine laughed coldly to no one but himself, the sound lost beneath the angry clash of the blades.

Vader's fighting style, his whole temperament, had escalated in the last few minutes, with Skywalker's own reaction spiraling in response. Long months of strict training were now paying off, Palpatine's harsh lessons and relentless, faultfinding criticism forcing the boy to master every weakness, oppressive discipline drilling knowledge and expertise into him, driving him to obsessively remove every defect in technique.

His fine blade. Unique and exquisite, ruthless and deadly. A flawless work of art.

 

Luke moved without hesitation, without doubt, without anxiety. He knew that Vader was right; his real weaknesses were the injuries he had sustained at his Master's hand and his exhaustion from months of relentless pressure, never time to fully heal, to recover physically or mentally since he'd first been brought here. But all that frustration and bitter resentment could be channeled and twisted to serve now; to give power to aching muscles and failing repairs.

He wasn't afraid—death was easy, now. He'd stood so often at the brink in the past months that it held no threat anymore. But he wouldn't die without taking the source of all his torment with him.

He closed in, mind set on that end goal and what would take him there, his attack herding Vader back towards the cavernous main hall.

 

Beneath a hail of swift blows, Vader backstepped towards the tall double doors. Momentarily he thought this was coincidence, but the blows were too specific, his every attempt to sidestep them pointedly curtailed.

Luke was trying to back him out into the larger space of the Vermilion Hall, taking the fight to better ground, more suited to his strengths. He'd isolated his father's fighting style, his strengths and weaknesses. Now he was attempting to take control. In this confined room he'd been uncomfortably close, with no real space to maneuver in counter to his father's raw power. Speed and agility gave little advantage in a cramped space, so close that Vader had repeatedly been able to force physical contact, knowing that Luke had no defense against his tremendous physical strength. Not surprisingly, he was pushing to take the fight to a larger arena where he could better maneuver to bring his dexterity and fast pace into play.

Technically they were well matched, though Vader was beginning to realize just how much faster Luke was than he, how much more agile, both in body and approach. Classically trained, with years of ingrained practice, Vader fought according to pre-recognized and established moves, his automatic responses to certain attacks and defenses ingrained, something Luke was already learning to use against him. Wildly unpredictable but quietly pre-meditated, the boy used any chance, any opportunity presented, often luring Vader in with conventional moves before changing the attack part-way, so that there was no known response, no guaranteed parry. He fought with a combination of what must have been months of intensive training and the open mind of one who had only recently acquired these skills with no weight yet of convention or expectations. The Emperor had clearly invested the last several months in intensive training, equipping Luke with the aptitude to fight to this level, but none of the restrictions.

But if he hoped that taking the duel to a larger space would give him any advantage, he was mistaken, Vader mused grimly. He had fought too many duels against so many opponents in similar arenas, all of whom thought they could gain the advantage this way.

He backed into the long hall, relaxing into the fight, watching his opponent's body language and stance for clues as to his next attack, relieved that the Emperor had not yet followed to interfere.

Because it was here where the real duel would begin. And end.

There could be no hesitation, no holding back. His son's considerable skill had pared Vader's options down to almost none. The duel was too evenly matched for comfort, an unexpected and unwelcome complication. Cold reality had fired a rush of adrenaline-fed clarity of intention which stifled any guilt.

He whipped the blade around and down one-handed, stepping into a feint to lure the boy in closer then lock their blades in a spiraling movement, hoping to lash out again as he had done in Cloud City. But Luke was too fast, adding his own speed to the spiral then dropping his saber tip down and sliding the blade free as he moved swiftly forward to slash out in a tight horizontal cut towards Vader's shoulder that drew sparks as it impacted with cordite-reinforced armor.

Vader twisted back as Luke stepped nimbly to his side and out of his range of vision, a flare of panic causing him to lash out with a Force-push which the boy easily countered.

The biting realization that they truly were equally matched, brute force against speed, beat again at Vader's thoughts. There would be no easy win, and the longer they fought, the more likely it was that one of them would make a mistake. He needed to bring the boy down now, by _any_ means necessary, and deal with the consequences later. That single thought buzzed in his head and pounded with the beat of his heart, precluding all previous considerations.

Luke launched forward again, and the screaming clash of the sabers reverberated around the cavernous, empty space of the long reception hall, their acid glow the only light now, bathing the huge room in dancing shadows of blood red.

Vader pulled back, looking for a way to hobble the boy, who was gaining speed now, using the space to back his father onto the tiered steps, then pushing forward as he faltered, using any opportunity presented.

But he wasn't the only one who was capable of that.

When Luke pushed forward again, Vader reached out with the Force and snatched up one of the heavy carved chairs which lined the long wall beneath the tall windows, launching it forward—

At the last second, Luke was forced to abandon the attack to turn and throw out his hand, using the Force to deflect the incoming missile to the side and stepping clear in one smooth move. Abandoned by both, the chair skittered away over the smooth marble floor.

He spun back with barely enough time to meet Vader's blade as it swept out in a powerful horizontal blow, forcing a retreat. Vader pushed forward and Luke stepped back beneath the onslaught, fighting hard to hold ground, clearly aware that his father was trying to back him against the wall. A long string of heavy blows pressed him back though, as he searched for an opening.

When he saw it he took it without hesitation, catching Vader's blade on his own, stepping back as Vader came forward. In the same moment that he guided Vader's saber past himself he dropped the tip of his own, Vader's momentum too great to stop the move. Luke sidestepped, moving nimbly away from the ever-closing wall and gaining the time to gather an attack—

And Vader launched another chair from behind him, again forcing Luke to abandon his offensive in order to stop the incoming missile.

This time Luke twisted about and shattered the hefty chair to pieces with a counter-blow in the Force, spinning back round barely in time to stay the crushing backswing which Vader landed, powerful enough to stop his blade dead and force another backstep as his feet slid on the smooth marble floor.

He took another quick step back, his heel hitting the steps he had earlier forced Vader down, and Vader pushed forward with a hail of heavy blows, trying again to force the boy along them and into a corner.

Luke backed quickly up the three steps, knowing that his opponent would take the opportunity to land a low blow that would be difficult to counter, but knowing also that he either he took the chance, or allowed himself to be corralled into the dangerous restriction of wall to his side. As the boy stepped higher Vader lashed out with his saber across Luke's ankles, knowing that he'd have little power to counter, so low.

Luke launched upward and somersault over Vader, clear before he'd even had the time to bring his blade up. He twisted mid-flip as Vader turned, but his agility and speed bought him the edge, and it was Vader who was forced to defend, dropping from a high swipe to a low defense, knowing that the boy's saber would land the blow first.

Luke was landing his first blow as his feet touched down, springing into a fast sidestep as he strung three more swift strikes together, gaining him time to launch a more premeditated sequence—

And the moment he moved to attack, Vader reached out to the long window-lined wall with the Force, and launched another heavy chair toward him.

Letting out a yell equal parts frustration and rage, Luke broke off, head jerking to the side momentarily, eyes afire—

The burst of Dark power exploded outwards into the room, hitting Vader like a body-blow, knocking the air from his lungs and impacting with painful compression on his eardrums, the shockwave radiating out past him, its power bulging the bank of tall glass windows with a solid _'whump!'_ which crazed them into opaque devastation with an ear-splitting screech of splintered transparisteel—

And the row of chairs beneath them which had proved so useful to distract the boy…every one was instantly reduced to matchwood, collapsed against the wall under the magnitude of the blow as a spray of splinters and fine dust ballooned up about them.

Luke was already rushing forward incensed, saber swinging back to deliver a heavy blow, twisting past as Vader blocked. A second fast blow landed to his nearly unprotected back, forcing Vader to over-reach, to overstep his own center of balance, so that the next blow pushed him back further, his defense slower, Luke already moving again, looking to land the next blow.

Vader retreated against the onslaught, searching for an error, an opening, an opportunity. Luke drove forward, every blow a precursor to the next, every defense a step into attack.

He had his space now, room to maneuver, and he used it, always moving, always changing the angle of attack, forcing Vader to do the same, to fight at his pace. Robbing him of his massive, powerful swings in order to hold against the momentum. Too fast—but if Vader stepped back then Luke was immediately there, taking the fight to him, four or five fast blows, then pulling back again, drawing Vader back into the fight then flipping clear, darting away. And the moment Vader slowed, he would sidestep, moving round his opponent's limited vision, looking for that blind spot, making Vader back up again, giving more ground. Too much ground.

Finally Vader broke the pace by giving several steps, chest heaving in labored breaths as he pulled back to a safer range. Luke paused momentarily, walking slowly around his father, his limp growing worse but still looking for that opportunity, some chink in his father's armor, physical or mental.

"You're tiring," Luke goaded as he circled, bringing his arm up and back, attempting to loosen that pre-injured shoulder as he swung his saber in slow arcs before him, tip to the ground.

"You're weakening," Vader ground out, aware that the boy was right.

"Not in resolve."

"You don't have to do as he commands…"

"This from the man who told me that I didn't understand—that he _must_ obey his Master." Luke shook his head, voice rough with scorn. "Don't dare lecture me."

"You are slave to no one, Luke—neither Palpatine nor Darkness. You are beyond both. Understand that!"

"Because of you, is that what you think? Because you pushed me to this?" His son's chin came up in a challenge, words clipped by short breaths. When Vader didn't reply, realization flared in Luke's eyes. "Is this what you wanted? Is this what you _wanted_ for me?!"

"I wanted _everything_ for you. I would have paid any price…"

"But you didn't… _I did_." Luke's voice was raw with anger and accusation. " _I_ paid the price for your ambition. _Yours_ , not mine."

"Luke, listen to me..." Vader glanced to the doors which he knew Palpatine would soon walk through, stepping back as his son stepped forward, determined to have this opportunity, even now. To _make_ the boy understand. "The power you hold now will gain you everything. An Empire, when you decide to take it."

"I don't _want_ your Empire!"

"Then why were you fighting with the Rebellion? To overthrow—to take command. Everything you wanted then I have placed within your grasp. _Everything_."

Luke dragged broken, strapped fingers back through sweat-spiked hair, voice fraught with emotion. "You have _no idea_ what I wanted! I was fighting for _freedom_ , not command. From you, from him, from this—" He gestured wildly about him to the gilded opulence of the huge Palace, the grasping affluence and self-serving influence of the city-planet beyond.

It was an impassioned cry, accusation and desperation both, a momentary glimpse of the idealistic boy that Vader had faced over Bespin. Proof that he still existed in some form, no matter how tattered.

"You've made me everything that I was fighting against, and I can't step back—I can't _ever_ go back. That person is dead! Your son died here—can't you see that!"

Vader shook his head, aware that Palpatine would be in the room in moments. "You are still my son…more powerful than ever."

Luke shook his head, manner slipping instantly from impassioned to cool, the change chillingly mercurial, that outburst of unbridled emotion completely suppressed. "That won't save you."

"I don't believe you'd kill me. I don't believe the Emperor has taken you from me so completely," Vader gambled, realizing as he finally gave all of his own tangled confusions voice, that he should have spoken out long ago. "Because everything that you are, I am. Every feeling that tears at you now, _I_ have endured. But look at where you are…the power you hold! I did this for you— _for you!_ The Darkness has not taken away what I feel for my son. No matter how at odds, or how powerful the Darkness, I _cannot_ deny them. _This is stronger_. And everything that I feel, I _know_ that you feel too. _That_ is why you will not land the blow."

The boy was silent for long seconds, head low, chest heaving from exertion…

Unstable, volatile emotions flared again quicksilver-fast, Luke's reaction tearing through Vader's hope. "You of all people, _you_ who brought me here… You have the audacity to claim affinity, any connection—a right to ambition on my behalf? You're nothing to me! _Nothing!"_

Luke hurled the words at his father, wild with the pain of bitter abandonment and his own shattered hope, an intensity Vader couldn't hope to counter. He charged forward, saber swinging high and back, the blow coming down with enough power to send a shock through Vader's arms and stagger him back a step as he held against it, Luke's blade still pressing home, locked onto his father's as he leaned unafraid into the wildly flaring blades, the red glare showing deep scars gouged into the pale skin of his face as ragged black lines.

Vader faltered beneath the raw emotion contained in those eyes and in that moment Luke struck out, eyes hard and cold, the Darkness answering his actions unbidden, whipping about him, power drawn to passion.

Anger, absolute outrage, gave him a speed which Vader couldn't hope to match. Every move came faster, every action leading to the next, forcing Vader into check, each attempt to free himself only taking him into another check.

Vader looked for an opening, a way to contain him so that he could bring his strength to bear, but Luke was moving too quickly, countering every parry, giving no quarter, every blow closer, reactions honed to a hair's-breadth.

Realization came in a scarlet wave of burning panic; that they were not equal...

That his son would best him.

Luke's lightsaber swung down and away as his hand rose, palm out, a whirlwind of power compressed into a single body-blow.

Realizing, Vader raised his own hand, calling the Force to counter the push, and momentarily they froze, power against power, the Force holding each of them immobile whilst pushing forward with inexorable strength, feet sliding against the smooth marble floor, unstoppable force meeting immovable object.

Raw power—Vader's bulk towered over his son's slight form at this proximity as each channeled the deluge of energy, hand out before them so close they could almost touch. Vader grunted; let out a primal sound as he brought every last trace of strength to bear.

But this was not the physical—this was a blow conceived of Darkness. His son tilted his head, narrowed his eyes…

The power—the blow which hurled against Vader in that moment—was fury unleashed, utterly unstoppable. Absolute energy directed and constrained, channeled to a single intent. It was raging emotion given physical form and even countering with the same, Vader had no chance of neutralizing or containing it.

He faltered, felt himself launched backwards as his feet left the floor, thrown against the far wall with massive force which drove the air from his lungs as his legs collapsed beneath him. He kept hold of his lightsaber as he crumpled down, vision tunneling to darkness, desperately pulling the Force about winded lungs and pounding head as Luke stalked forward, eyes burning with grim intent.

It took a second—a second, no more—to bring himself around, to _force_ alertness and energy through failing awareness…

…The sound of a lightsaber's droning buzz overrode the hiss of his respirator.

His son stood over him breathing heavily, pale, scarred features given harsh relief in the scarlet glow, sweat spiking his hair.

His hands holding the saber shook as the bright crimson blade wavered before Vader's throat.

 

Palpatine stood mesmerized at the entrance to the hall, frozen in tense anticipation, waiting to see what his feral Jedi would do—whether he would walk away as ordered, or whether the desire to destroy that which Palpatine had invested so much in making him hate would drive him to openly disobey his Master and bring down his wrath yet again.

His own black heart beat fast in his ears, the slightest of gratified smiles tugging the corners of thin, bloodless, breathless lips as he waited, transfixed…

His Jedi's blade lifted just slightly, weight shifting…

"Leave him…" Palpatine grated voice low and even, equal parts confident coercion and oppressive threat.

Still the boy didn't move.

"Step back, Jedi," Palpatine ordered, caught up in this strained battle of wills, the ultimate opportunity to pitch his own inflexible resolve against Skywalker's volatile, headstrong temperament. To bring his will to bear against this Sith he had created, as wild and dangerous and unpredictable as the wolf which haunted his visions.

Skywalker wavered long seconds, the scarlet saber blade weaving before Vader's face with every labored breath…

 

The burning compulsion to push the blade home seared through every fiber of Luke's body, cramping taut muscles to strained paralysis, his Master's words a distant abstraction no more substantial than a whisper whilst driving forces tore at him, screaming in chaotic contradiction, driving him to distraction, his heart pounding so heavily that it shook his whole body with every beat.

Harsh, uncompromising reality bled slowly back in about him, cold and clammy, as the intense burst of Dark clarity fired by the heat of battle abandoned him to a chilling, crushing confusion.

 

Palpatine watched his Jedi blink; blink again…and back a step away, deactivating his saber. Frustrated and stormy and murderous, driven to distraction…but controlled now. Perhaps this wolf would yet walk to heel.

Skywalker stumbled another step back, sense boiling as Palpatine remained still and resolute, not allowing his triumph to show in his face as the boy wheeled away—

And Vader launched up, incensed, saber high, slicing down…

With no time to turn, Skywalker brought his hilt up and over the back his head, igniting it as he did so to block the attack from behind. He twisted around, using the momentum to carry Vader's blade with him as the turn pushed it away, his eyes wild and feral and outraged—

The blow was incredibly fast, absolutely faultless: Skywalker pulled back and swung in high but as Vader moved to intercept, he brought the base of his hilt around in the palm of his hand so that Vader's blade met empty air as Skywalker's swung in horizontally towards his father's head. Vader ducked and twisted away as the blade snicked against the edge of his helmet, missing the killing blow by less than a blade's breadth. He spun his saber back in a desperate defensive arc but Skywalker caught it with his own, his blade looping about it to rob it of any power and drive it to the side—

And he was inside Vader's guard, batting his ruby blade back with a final twist—

Perfect strategy, incredible speed, flawless execution. No defense…

 

Luke kicked out hard, the blow landing solidly against Vader's ribs. He fell back, landing heavily, the breath knocked from his lungs in a gasp—and Luke was there, one knee on his father's chest, back arching as he held his lightsaber high above that hated black faceplate to deliver the killing blow, hilt up, blade pointing straight down.

Palpatine shouted out, the speed of the final attack unanticipated. "Skywalker— _STOP!"_

Luke stabbed the blade down, ignoring his Master's shout of " _NO!"_

All that revulsion and rage and resentment, that driving desire to destroy this creature and so free himself of that which reminded him every single day of his own inherent weakness… Into a single blow was compressed all of that bitter, grievous hatred and loathing…

Of his father…and of himself.

 

Too far away to intervene Palpatine reached out with the Force, lifting his hand as the saber came down. But his attempt to stay the blow was knocked aside by the surge of savage power hurled out from his feral Jedi, batting away any hindrance—

The scarlet glow of the blade disappeared without visible resistance as he drove it down, stopping with a solid _thunk_ only as the hilt finally hit resistance.

Skywalker cried out in frustration as he wrenched himself up and away, stalking from the huge hall without stopping, a shadow lost in the darkness—

Leaving his saber buried up to its hilt in the floor…a hair's breadth away from Vader's head.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**EPILOGUE **

_Rumor_   
_Conjecture_   
_It's everywhere here in the Rebellion, especially here below decks. Especially now._

_There's a new Sith. That isn't idle talk._   
_A new enemy who serves the Emperor on Coruscant with as great a commitment as Vader ever did, whilst Vader himself travels with the fleet, dedicated to continuing his life's work of hunting us down for his Master._   
_He has no name, this new Sith. He has no past._   
_And Palpatine plays his games; calls him his feral Jedi, his purebred Sith, his fine blade._

_They say there's no solid information as to who he is, though rumor is that there are those here in the Rebellion's hierarchy who know the truth._   
_The rest of us…we fall back on theories, gossip, second-hand accounts…_   
_There are whispers that this new Sith is Vader's son. There's conjecture that he's Palpatine's son._   
_There are rumors that he was once a Rebel. There are murmurs that he was a spy, skilled enough to infiltrate the leadership here._   
_There are theories that he served as an elite Red Guard on Imperial Center whilst he was being trained by Palpatine._   
_Speculation that he traveled with Vader in the Emperor's fleet, as a combat pilot._   
_Indications that he grew up hidden away on a Rim world, where harsh lessons are learned young._

_They say he's as cold and heartless as his Master. They say it's good that he's caged within the Core Systems because his Emperor likes him close to heel._   
_Close, because it's whispered that this new Sith has his own mind and his own will, reluctant to tender the same blind servitude that Vader offers Palpatine._   
_That he builds his own power base within the Emperor's Palace._   
_Still, it's this new Sith who leads the Emperor's forces in the Core systems, now._   
_This new Sith who stands at the Emperor's right hand and dispenses his will with such cool, detached diligence._

_They say that Palpatine describes Lord Vader as his attack dog—and this new Sith as his wolf._   
_That's what they call him now…even here, behind close doors: The Wolf._

_They say he'll rule the Empire within a decade._   
_They say that isn't conjecture._

 

 

 

 

 

****·●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●·****  

 

 

Continued in  
 **In Shadows and Darkness**

 

 

As ever, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank **Jedi-2B** for betaing my considerably less than perfect grammar and grasp of American English. She's written endless great stuff herself and always encourages me no end to get my ass in gear and post!  
My gratitude, always.

 

**Disclaimer: **   
As per usual, I should point out that I own no part of Star Wars, nor do I profit from it. It's all owned and run by the guy in the plaid shirt and the Mouse


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